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THE  WORKS 

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Charles  Dickens 

VOLUME  EIGHTEEN 


Bleak  House 

(PART  TWO) 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY 
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MISCELLANEOUS 


New  York 

PETER  FENELON  COLLIER,  PUBLISHER 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 

(PART  TWO.) 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

Springing  a  Mine. 

Hefbeshed  by  sleep,  Mr.  Bucket  rises  betimes  in  the 
morning,  and  prepares  for  a  field-day.  Smartened  up  by 
the  aid  of  a  clean  sliirt  and  a  wet  hair-brusb,  with  which 
instrument,  on  occasions  of  ceremony,  he  lubricates  such 
thin  locks  as  remain  to  him  after  his  life  of  severe  study, 
Mr.  Bucket  lays  in  a  breakfast  of  two  mutton  chops  as  a 
foundation  to  work  upon,  together  with  tea,  eggs,  toast, 
and  marmalade,  on  a  corresponding  scale.  Having 
much  enjoyed  these  strengthening  matters,  and  having 
held  subtle  conference  with  his  familiar  demon,  he  con- 
fidently instructs  Mercury  '*just  to  mention  quietly  to 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  that  whenever  he's 
ready  for  me,  I'm  ready  for  him."  A  gracious  message 
being  returned,  that  Sir  Leicester  will  expedite  his  dress- 
ing and  join  Mr.  Bucket  in  the  library  within  ten  min- 
utes, Mr.  Bucket  repairs  to  that  apartment  ;  and  stands 
before  the  fire,  with  his  finger  on  his  chin,  looking  at  the 
blazing  coals. 

Thoughtful  Mr.  Bucket  is  ;  as  a  man  may  be,  with 
weighty  work  to  do  ;  but  composed,  sure,  confident. 
From  the  expression  of  his  face,  he  might  be  a  famous 
whist-player  for  a  large  stake — say  a  hundred  guineas 
certain — with  the  game  in  his  hand,  but  with  a  high  repu- 
tation involved  in  his  playing  his  hand  out  to  the  last 
card,  in  a  masterly  way.  Not  in  the  least  anxious  or 
disturbed  is  Mr.  Bucket  when  Sir  Leicester  appears  ;  but 
he  eyes  the  baronet  aside  as  he  comes  slowly  to  his  easy 
chair,  with  that  observant  gravity  of  yesterday,  in  which 
there  might  have  been  yesterday,  but  for  the  audacity  of 
the  idea,  a  touch  of  compassion. 

**  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  officer,  but  I 
am  rather  later  than  my  usual  hour  this  morning.  I  am 
not  well.  The  agitation,  and  the  indignation  from 
which  I  have  recently  suffered,  have  been  too  much  for 
me.  I  am  subject  to — gout ;  "  Sir  Leicester  was  going 
to  say  indisposition,  and  would  have  said  it  to  anybody 
3lse,  but  Mr.  Bucket  palpably  knows  all  about  it ;  and 
recent  circumstances  have  brought  it  on." 

As  he  takes  his  seat  with  some  difficultv,  and  with  an 

(3) 


4 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DlCKBNS. 


air  of  pain,  Mr.  Bucket  draws  a  little  nearer,  standing 
witli  one  of  his  large  hands  on  the  library  table. 

"  I  am  not  aware,  officer, Sir  Leicester  observes,  rais- 
ing* his  eyes  to  his  face,  whether  you  wish  us  to  be 
alone  ;  but  that  is  entirely  as  you  please.  If  you  do, 
well  and  good.  If  not.  Miss  Dedlock  would  be  inter- 
ested— " 

"  Why,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  returns  Mr, 
Bucket,  with  his  head  persuasively  on  one  side,  and  his* 
forefinger  pendant  at  one  ear  like  an  ear-ring,  "  we  can't 
be  too  private,  just  at  present.  You  will  presently  see 
that  we  can't  be  too  private.  A  lady,  under  any  circum- 
stances, and  especially  in  Miss  Dedlock's  elevated  station 
of  society,  can't  but  be  agreeable  to  me  ;  but  speaking 
without  a  view  to  myself,  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  as- 
suring you  that  I  know  we  can't  be  too  private." 

*'  That  is  enough." 

**So  much  so.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  Mr. 
Bucket  resumes,  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  your 
permission  to  turn  the  key  in  the  door." 

**By  all  means."  Mr.  Bucket  skilfully  and  softly 
takes  that  precaution ;  stooping  on  his  knee  for  a 
moment,  from  mere  force  of  habit,  so  to  adjust  the  key 
in  the  lock  as  that  no  one  shall  peep  in  from  the  outer- 
side. 

'*Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  mentioned  yester- 
day evening,  that  I  wanted  but  a  very  little  to  corapletQ, 
this  case.  I  have  now  completed  it,  and  collected  proof 
against  the  person  who  did  this  crime." 

*'  Against  the  soldier?  " 
No,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  ;  not  the  soldier." 

Sir  Leicester  looks  astounded,  and  inquires,  "Is  the 
man  in  custody?" 

Mr.  Bucket  tells  him,  after  a  pause,  "  It  was  a 
woman." 

Sir  Leicester  leans  back  in  his  chair,  and  breathlessly 
ejaculates,     Good  Heaven  I  " 

**Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  Mr.  Bucket 
begins,  standing  over  him  with  one  hand  spread  out  on 
the  library  table,  and  the  forefinger  of  the  other  in  im- 
pressive use,  it's  my  duty  to  prepare  you  for  a  train  of 
circumstances  that  may,  and  I  go  so  far  as  to  say  that 
will,  give  you  a  shock.  But  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  you  are  a  gentleman  ;  and  I  know  what  a  gen- 
tleman is,  and  what  a  gentleman  is  capable  of.  A  gen- 
tleman can  bear  a  shock,  when  it  must  come,  boldly  and 
steadily.  A  gentleman  can  make  up  his  mind  to  stand 
up  against  almost  any  blow.  Why,  take  yourself.  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet.  If  there's  a  blow  to  be  in- 
flicted on  you,  you  naturally  think  of  your  family.  You 
ask  yourself,  how  would  all  them  ancestors  of  yours. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


5 


away  to  Julius  Csesar — not  to  go  beyond  him  at  present 
— have  borne  that  blow ;  you  remember  scores  of  them 
that  would  have  borne  it  well ;  and  you  bear  it  well  on 
their  accounts,  and  to  maintain  the  family  credit. 
That's  the  way  you  argue,  and  that's  the  way  you  act. 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet." 

Sir  Leicester,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  grasping 
the  elbows,  sits  looking  at  him  with  a  stony  face. 

"  Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,"  proceeds  Mr.  Bucket, 
'*  thus  preparing  you,  let  me  beg  of  you  not  to  trouble 
your  mind  for  a  moment,  as  to  anything  having  come  to 
knowledge.  I  know  so  much  about  so  many  char, 
acters,  high  and  low,  that  a  piece  of  information  more  or 
lesSj,  don't  signify  a  straw,  I  don't  suppose  there's  a 
move  on  the  board  that  would  surprise  me  ;  and  as  to 
this  or  that  move  having  taken  place,  why  my  knowing 
it  is  no  odds  at  all  ;  any  possible  move  whatever  (pro- 
vided it's  in  a  wrong  direction)  being  a  probable  move  ac- 
cording to  my  experience.  Therefore,  what  I  say  to  you, 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  is,  don't  you  go  and  let 
yourself  be  put  out  of  the  way,  because  of  my  knowing 
anything  of  your  family  affairs." 

I  thank  you  for  your  preparation,"  returns  Sir  Lei- 
cester, after  a  silence,  without  moving  hand,  foot,  or 
feature  ;  which  I  hope  is  not  necessary,  though  I  give 
it  credit  for  being  well  intended.  Be  so  good  as  to  go 
on.  Also  Sir  Leicester  seems  to  shrink  in  the  shadow 
of  his  liguro  ;  also  to  take  a  seat,  if  you  have  no  ob- 
jection." 

None  at  all.  Mr.  Bucket  brings  a  chair,  and  dimin- 
ishes his  shadow.  **  Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Bar. 
onet,  with  this  short  preface  I  come  to  the  point.  Lady 
Dedlock—" 

Sir  Leicester  raises  himself  in  his  seat,  ana  stares  at 
him  fiercely.  Mr.  Bucket  brings  the  finger  into  play  &fi 
an  emollient. 

''Lady  Dedlock,  you  see,  she's  universally  admired. 
That's  what  her  Ladyship  is ;  she's  universally  admired/ 
says  Mr.  Bucket. 

I  would  greatly  prefer,  officer,"  Sir  Leicester  returns, 
stiffly,  ''my  Lady's  name  being  entirely  omitted  from  this 
discussion." 

*'  So  would  I,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  Baronet,  but— 
it's  impossible." 
"  Impossible  ?  " 

Mr.  Bucket  shakes  his  relentless  head. 

*'  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  it's  altogether  impos- 
sible. What  I  have  got  to  say,  is  about  her  Ladyship, 
^he  is  the  pivot  it  all  turns  on."  - 

"Officer,"  retorts  Sir  Leicester,  with  a  fiery  eye,  and  a 
quivering  lip»  "  you  know  your  duty.    Do  Vour  duty  • 


6 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


trnt  be  careful  not  to  overstep  It.  1  would  not  suffer  It. 
I  would  not  endure  it.  Yoa  bring  my  Lady's  name  into 
this  communication  upon  your  responsibility — upon  your 
responsibility.  My  Lady's  name  is  not  a  name  for  com- 
mon persons  to  trifle  with  ! " 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  say  what  I  must 
say  ;  and  no  more.'' 

"1  hope  it  may  prove  so.  Very  well.  Go  on.  Go  on, 
sir  !" 

Glancing"  at  the  angry  eyes  which  now  avoid  him,  and 
at  the  angry  figure  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  yet 
striving  to  be  still,  Mr.  Bucket  feels  his  way  with  his 
forefinger,  and  in  a  low  voice  proceeds. 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  it  becomes  my  duty 
to  tell  you  that  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  long  en- 
tertained mistrusts  and  suspicions  of  Lady  Dedlock." 

If  he  had  dared  to  breathe  them  to  me,  sir — which 
he  never  did — I  would  have  killed  him  myself  I "  ex- 
claims Sir  Leicester,  striking  his  hand  upon  the  table. 
But,  in  the  very  heat  and  fury  of  the  act,  he  stops,  fixed 
by  the  knowing  eyes  of  Mr.  Bucket,  whose  forefinger  is 
slowly  going,  and  who,  with  mingled  confidence  and 
patience,  shakes  his  head. 

*'Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn 
was  deep  and  close  ;  and  what  he  fully  had  in  his  mind  in 
the  very  beginning,  I  can't  quite  take  upon  myself  to  say. 
But  I  know  from  his  lips,  that  he  long  ago  suspected 
Lady  Dedlock  of  having  discovered,  through  the  sight 
3f  some  handwriting — in  this  very  house,  and  when  you 
yourself.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  were  present — the  exist- 
3nce,  in  great  poverty,  of  a  certain  person,  who  had  been 
her  lover  before  you  courted  her,  and  who  ought  to  have 
been  her  husband  ; "  Mr.  Bucket  stops,  and  deliberately 
repeats,  *'  ought  to  have  been  her  husband  ;  not  a  doubt 
about  it.  I  know  from  his  lips,  that  when  that  person 
soon  afterwards  died,  he  suspected  Lady  Dedlock  of  visit- 
ing his  wretched  lodging,  and  his  wretcheder  grave,  alone 
and  in  secret.  I  know  from  my  own  inquiries,  and  through 
my  eyes  and  ears,  that  Lady  Dedlock  did  make  such 
visit,  in  the  dress  of  her  own  maid  ;  for  the  deceased 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn  employed  me  to  reckon  up  her  Lady- 
ship— if  you'll  excuse  my  making  use  of  the  term  we 
commonly  employ — and  I  reckoned  her  up,  so  far,  com- 
pletely. I  confronted  the  maid,  in  the  chambers  !n  Lin- 
coln's Inn  Fields,  with  a  witness  who  had  been  Lady 
Dedlock's  guide  ;  and  there  couldn't  be  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  that  she  had  worn  the  young  woman's  dress,  un- 
known to  her.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  did  en- 
deavour to  pave  the  way  a  little  towards  these  unpleasant 
disclosures  yesterday,  by  saying  that  very  strange  things 
happened  even  in  high  families  sometimes.    All  this. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


/ 

7 


and  more,  has  happened  In  your  own  family,  and  to  and 
througfh  your  own  Lady.  It's  my  belief  that  the  deceased 
Mr.  Tulldnghorn  followed  up  these  inquiries  to  the  hour 
of  his  death  ;  and  that  he  and  Lady  Dedlock  even  had 
bad  blood  between  them  upon  the  matter,  that  very  night. 
Now,  only  you  put  that  to  Lady  Dedlock,  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  Baronet ;  and  ask  her  Ladyship  whether,  even 
after  he  had  left  here,  she  didn't  go  down  to  his  chambers 
with  the  intention  of  saying  something  further  to  him, 
dressed  in  a  loose  black  mantle  with  a  deep  fringe  to  it." 

Sir  Leicester  sits  like  a  statue,  gazing  at  the  cruel  fin- 
ger that  is  probing  the  life-blood  of  his  heart. 

You  put  that  to  her  Ladyship,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  from  me,  Inspector  Bucket  of  the  Detective. 
And  if  her  Ladyship  makes  any  difficulty  about  admit- 
ting of  it,  you  tell  her  that's  it  no  use  ;  that  Inspector 
Bucket  knows  it,  and  knows  that  she  passed  the  soldier 
as  you  called  him  (though  he's  not  in  the  army  now), 
«iid  knows  that  she  knows  she  passed  him,  on  the  stair- 
case. Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  why  do  1 
relate  all  this  ?  " 

Sir  Leicester,  who  has  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
uttering  a  single  groan,  requests  him  to  pause  for  a  mo- 
ment. By-and-by,  he  takes  his  hands  away ;  and  so 
preserves  his  dignity  and  outward  calmness,  though 
there  is  no  more  colour  in  his  face  than  in  his  whl  \e  hair, 
that  Mr.  Bucket  is  a  little  awed  by  him.  Something 
frozen  and  fixed  is  upon  his  manner,  over  and  above  its, 
usual  shell  of  haughtiness  ;  and  Mr.  Bucket  soon  detects 
an  unusual  slowness  in  his  speech,  with  now  and  then  ft 
curious  trouble  in  beginning,  which  occasions  him  to 
utter  inarticulate  sounds.  With  such  sounds  lie  now 
breaks  silence  ;  soon,  however,  controlling  himself  to 
say,  that  he  does  not  comprehend  why  a  gentleman  so 
faithful  and  zealous  as  the  late  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  should 
have  communicated  to  him  nothing  of  this  painful,  this 
distressing,  this  unlooked-for,  this  overwhelming,  this 
incredible  intelligence. 

"Again,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  returns  Mr. 
Bucket,  "  put  it  to  her  Ladyship  to  clear  that  up.  Put  it 
to  her  Ladyship,  if  you  think  right,  from  Inspector 
Bucket  of  the  Detective.  You'll  find,  or  I'm  much  mis- 
taken, that  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  had  the  inten- 
tion of  communicating  the  whole  to  you,  as  soon  as  he 
considered  it  ripe  ;  and  further,  that  he  had  given  her 
Ladyship  so  to  understand.  Why,  he  might  have  been 
going  to  reveal  it  on  the  very  morning  when  I  examined 
the  body  !  You  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  say  and 
do,  five  minutes  from  this  present  time,  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  Baronet :  and  supposing  I  was  to  be  picked  oft 


8 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


now,  you  might  wonder  wliy  I  "hadn't  done  it,  don't  you 
see  ?  " 

True.  Sir  Leicester,  avoiding  with  some  trouble, 
those  obtrusive  sounds,  says,  '^True."  At  this  juncture, 
a  considerable  noise  of  voices  is  heard  in  the  hall.  Mr. 
Bucket,  after  listening,  goes  to  the  library-door,  softly 
unlocks  and  opens  it,  and  listens  again.  Then  he  draws 
in  his  head,  and  whispers,  hurriedly,  but  composedly. 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  this  unfortunate  family 
affair  has  taken  air,  as  I  expected  it  might ;  the  deceased 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn  being  cut  down  so  sudden.  The  chance 
to  hush  it,  is  to  let  in  these  people,  now  in  a  wrangle 
with  your  footmen.  Would  you  mind  sitting  quiet — 
on  the  family  account — while  I  reckon  'em  up  ?  And 
would  you  just  throw  in  a  nod,  when  I  seem  to  ask  you 
for  it?" 

Sir  Leicester  indistinctly  answers,  "  Officer.  The  best 
you  can,  the  best  you  can  I  "  and  Mr.  Bucket,  with  a  nod 
and  a  sagacious  crook  of  the  fore-finger,  slips  down  into 
the  hall,  where  the  voices  quickly  die  away.  He  is  not 
long  in  returning,  a  few  paces  a-head  of  Mercury,  and  a 
brother  deity  also  powdered  and  in  peach-blossom  smalls, 
who  bear  between  them  a  chair  in  which  is  an  incapable 
old  man.  Another  man  and  two  women  come  behind. 
Directing  the  pitching  of  the  chair,  in  an  affable  and 
easy  manner,  Mr.  Bucket  dismisses  the  Mercuries,  and 
locks  the  door  again.  Sir  Leicester  looks  on  at  this  inva- 
sion of  the  sacred  precincts  with  an  icy  stare. 

"  Now,  perhaps  you  may  know  me,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men," says  Mr.  Bucket,  in  a  confidential  voice.  "I  am 
Inspector  Bucket  of  the  Detective,  I  am  ;  and  this,  '*  pro- 
ducing the  tip  of  his  convenient  little  staff  from  his 
breast  pocket,  is  my  authority.  Now,  you  wanted  to  see 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet.  Well  !  You  do  see  him  ; 
and,  mind  you,  it  ain't  every  one  as  is  admitted  to  that 
honour.  Your  name,  old  gentleman,  is  Smallweed; 
that's  what  your  name  is  ;  I  know  it  well. " 

Well,  and  you  never  heard  any  harm  of  it  I  "  cried 
Mr.  Smallweed,  in  a  shrill  loud  voice. 

You  don't  happen  to  know  why  they  killed  the  pig, 
do  you  ?"  retorts  Mr.  Bucket,  with  a  steadfast  look,  but 
without  loss  of  temper. 

''No  I" 

"Why,  they  killed  him,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  "on 
account  of  his  having  so  much  cheek.  Don't  you  get 
into  the  same  position,  because  it  isn't  worthy  of  you. 
You  ain't  in  the  habit  of  conversing  with  a  deaf  person, 
are  you?" 

"  Yes,"  snarls  Mr.  Smallweed,  "  my  wife's  deaf." 
"  That  accounts  for  your  pitching  your  voice  so  high. 
But  as  she  ain't  here,  just  pitch  it  an  octave  or  two 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


9 


lower,  will  you,  and  Fll  not  only  be  obliged  to  you,  but 
it'll  do  you  more  credit,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  This  other 
gentleman  is  in  the  preaching  line,  I  think  ?  " 

'*Name  of  Chadband,"  Mr.  Smallweed  puts  in,  speak- 
ing henceforth  in  a  much  lower  key. 

*'  Once  had  a  friend  and  brother  serjeant  of  the  same 
name,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  offering  his  hand,  **  and  con- 
sequently feel  a  liking  for  it.  Mrs.  Chadband,  no 
doubt?" 

"  And  Mrs.  Snagsby,"  Mr.  Smallweed  introduces. 

"  Husband  a  law-stationer,  and  friend  of  my  own," 
jrtiys  Mr.  Bucket.  "Love  him  like  a  brother  1 — Now, 
what's  up  ?  " 

*'  Do  you  mean  what  business  have  we  come  upon  ? 
Mr.  Smallweed  asks,  a  little  dashed  by  the  suddenness 
of  this  turn  ! 

*'  Ah  !  You  know  what  I  mean.  Let  us  hear  what 
it*s  all  about  in  presence  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Bar- 
onet.   Come  ! " 

Mr.  Smallweed,  beckoning  Mr.  Chadband,  takes  a 
moment's  counsel  with  him  in  a  whisper.  Mr.  Chad- 
band,  expressing  a  considerable  amount  of  oil  from  the 
pores  of  his  forehead  and  the  palms  of  his  hands,  says 
aloud,  '*Yes.  You  first!"  and  retires  to  his  former 
place. 

I  was  the  client  and  friend  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn," 
pipes  Grandfather  Smallweed,  then  .*'** I  did  business 
with  him.  I  was  useful  to  him,  and  he  was  useful  to 
me.  Krook,  dead  and  gone,  was  my  brother-in-law. 
He  was  own  brother  to  a  brimstone  magpie — leastways 
Mrs.  Smallweed.  I  come  into  Krook's  property.  I 
examined  all  his  papers  and  all  his  effects.  They  was 
all  dug  out  under  my  eyes.  There  was  a  bundle  of 
letters  belonging  to  a  dead-and-gone  lodger,  as  was  hid 
away  at  the  back  of  a  shelf  in  the  side  of  Lady  Jane's 
bed — his  cat's  bed.  He  hid  all  manner  of  things  away, 
everywheres.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  wanted  'em  and  got 
'em,  but  I  looked  'em  over  first.  I'm  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, and  I  took  a  squint  at  'em.  They  was  letters  from 
the  lodger's  sweetheart,  and  she  signed  Honoria.  Dear 
me,  that's  not  a  common  name,  Honoria,  is  it  ?  There's 
no  lady  in  this  house  that  signs  Honoria,  is  there  ?  O 
no,  I  don't  think  so  !  0  no,  I  don't  think  so  !  And  not 
in  the  same  hand,  perhaps  ?    O  no,  I  don't  think  so  ! " 

Here  Mr.  Smallweed,  seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing  in 
the  midst  of  his  triumph,  breaks  off  to  ejaculate,  O, 
dear  me  !    O  Lord  !    I'm  shaken  all  to  pieces  ! " 

''  Now,  when  you're  ready,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  after 
awaiting  his  recovery,  "to  come  to  anything  that  con- 
cerns Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  here  the  gentle- 
man sits,  you  know." 


10 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


'^Haven't  I  come  to  it,  Mr.  Bucket?''  cries  Grand- 
father Smallvveed.  Isn't  the  gentleman  concerned 
yet?  Not  with  Captain  Hawdoa  and  his  evet  affection- 
ate Honoria,  and  their  child  into  the  bargain  ?  Come, 
then,  I  want  to  know  where  those  letters  are.  That  con- 
cerns me,  if  it  don't  concern  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock.  I 
will  know  where  they  are.  I  won't  have  'em  disappear 
80  quietly.  1  handed  'em  over  to  my  friend  and  solici- 
tor, Mr.  Tulkinghorn  ;  not  to  anybody  else." 

Why  he  paid  you  for  them,  you  know,  and  hand- 
some, too,"  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

I  don't  care  for  that.  I  want  to  know  who's  got  'em. 
And  I  tell  you  what  we  want — what  we  all  here  want, 
Mr.  Bucket.  We  want  more  pains-taking  and  search- 
making  into  this  murder.  We  know  where  the  in- 
terest and  the  motive  was,  and  you  have  not  done 
enough.  If  George  the  vagabond  dragoon  had  any 
hand  in  it,  he  was  only  an  accomplice,  and  was  set  on. 
You  know  wliat  I  mean  as  well  as  any  man." 

**Now,  I  tell  you  what,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  instanta- 
neously altering  his  manner,  coming  close  to  him,  and 
«ommunicating  an  extraordinary  fascination  to  the  fore- 
finger, I  am  damned  if  I  am  going  to  have  my  case 
spoilt,  or  interfered  with,  or  anticipated  by  so  much  as 
half  a  second  of  time,'  by  any  human  being  in  creation. 
You  want  more  pains-taking  and  search-making?  You 
do?  Do  you  see  this  hand,  and  do  you  think  that  I 
don't  know  the  right  time  to  stretch  it  out,  and  put  it  on 
the  arm  that  fired  that  shot? 

Such  is  the  dread  power  of  the  man,  and  so  terribly 
evident  it  is  that  he  makes  no  idle  boast,  that  Mr.  Small- 
weed  begins  to  apologise.  Mr.  Bucket,  dismissing  his 
sudden  anger,  checks  him. 

The  advice  I  give  you  is,  don't  you  trouble  your  head 
about  the  murder.  That's  my  affair.  You  keep  half  an 
eye  on  the  newspapers  ;  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  was 
to  read  something  about  it  before  long,  if  you  look  sharp. 
I  know  my  business,  and  that's  all  I've  got  to  say  to  you 
on  that  subject.  Now  about  those  letters.  You  want  to 
know  who's  got  'em.  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  /have 
got  'em.    Is  that  the  packet  ?  " 

Mr.  Small  weed  looks,  with  greedy  eyes,  at  the  little 
.bundle  Mr.  Bucket  produces  from  a  mysterious  part  of 
his  coat,  and  identifies  it  as  the  same. 

'*  What  have  you  got  to  say  next  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Bucket. 
*"'Now,  don't  open  your  mouth  too  wide,  because  you 
don't  look  handsome  when  you  do  it." 
I  want  five  hundred  pound." 

"  No,  you  don't ;  you  mean  fifty,"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
^aumorously. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


11 


It  appears,  however,  that  Mr.  Smallweed  means  five 
liundred. 

*'That  is,  I  am  deputed  by  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  to  consider  (without  admitting  or  promising 
anything)  this  bit  of  business,"  says  Mr.  Bucket  ;  Sir 
Leicester  mechanically  bows  his  head  ;  and  you  ask  me 
to  consider  a  proposal  of  five  hundred  pounds.  Why, 
it's  an  unreasonable  proposal  !  Two  fifty  would  be  bad 
enough,  but  better  than  that.  Hadn't  you  better  say 
two  fifty?" 

Mr.  Smallweed  is  quite  clear  that  he  had  better  not. 

"  Then,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  let's  hear  Mr.  Chadband. 
Lord  I  Many  a  time  I've  heard  my  old  fellow-serjeant 
of  that  name  ;  and  a  moderate  man  he  was  in  all  re- 
spects, as  ever  I  come  across  !  " 

Thus  invited,  Mr.  Chadband  steps  forth,  and,  after  a 
little  sleek  smiling,  and  a  little  oil-grinding  with  the 
palms  of  his  hands,  delivers  himself  as  follows  : 

*'  My  friends,  we  are  now — Rachael  my  wife,  and  I— 
in  the  mansions  of  the  rich  and  great.  Why  are  we  now 
in  the  mansions  of  the  rich  and  great,  my  friends  ?  Is  it 
because  we  are  invited  ?  Because  we  are  bidden  to  feast; 
with  them,  because  we  are  bidden  to  rejoice  with  them, 
because  we  are  bidden  to  play  the  lute  with  them,  be- 
cause we  are  bidden  to  dance  with  them  ?  No.  Then 
why  are  we  here,  my  friends  ?  Air  we  in  possession  of 
a  sinful  secret,  and  doe  we  require  corn,  and  wine,  and 
oil — or,  what  is  much  the  same  thing,  money — for  the 
keeping  thereof?   Probably  so,  my  friends." 

**  You're  a  man  of  business,  you  are,"  returns  Mr. 
Bucket,  very  attentive  ;  **and  consequently  you're  going 
on  to  mention  what  the  nature  of  your  secret  is.  You 
are  right.    You  couldn't  do  better." 

Let.  us  then,  my  brother,  in  a  spirit  of  love,"  says 
Mr.  Chadband,  with  a  cunning  eye,  "  proceed  untoe  it. 
Rachael,  my  wife,  advance  !" 

Mrs.  Chadband,  more  than  ready,  so  advances  as  to 
jostle  her  husband  into  the  back-ground,  and  confronts 
Mr.  Bucket  with  a  hard  frowning  smile.  . 

Since  you  want  to  know  what  we  know,"  says  she, 

I'll  tell  you.  I  helped  to  bring  up  Miss  Hawdon,  her 
Ladyship's  daughter.  I  was  in  the  service  of  her  Lady- 
ship's sister,  who  was  very  sensitive  to  the  disgrace  her 
Ladyship  brought  upon  her,  and  gave  out,  even  to  her 
Ladyship,  that  the  child  was  dead — she  was  very  nearly 
so — when  she  was  born.  But  she's  alive,  and"  I  know 
her."  With  these  words,  and  a  laugh,  and  laying  a  bit- 
ter stress  on  the  word  Ladyship,"  Mrs.  Chadband  folds 
her  arms,  and  looks  implacably  at  Mr*  Bucket. 

I  suppose  now,"  returns  that  oflicer,  **youYn\l  be 


12  WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS.  Jg. 

expecting  a  twenty-pound  note,  or  a  present  of  about 
that  figure  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chadband  merely  laughs,  and  contemptuously 
tells  him  he  can    offer  "  twenty  pence. 

My  friend  the  law-stationer's  good  lady  over  there, 
says  Mr.  Bucket,  luring  Mrs.  Snagsby  forward  with  the 
linger.    "  What  may  your  game  be,  ma'am  ?  " 

M  rs.  Snagsby  is  at  first  prevented,  by  tears  and  lamen- 
tations,  from  stating  the  nature  of  her  game  :  but  by  de- 
grees it  confusedly  comes  to  light,  that  she  is  a  woman 
overwhelmed  with  injuries  and  wrongs,  whom  Mr. 
Snagsby  has  habitually  deceived,  abandoned,  and  sought 
to  keep  in  darkness,  and  whose  chief  comfort,  under  hei 
afflictions,  has  been  the  sympathy  of  the  late  Mr.  Tulk. 
inghorn  ;  who  showed  so  much  commiseration  for  her, 
on  one  occasion  of  his  calling  in  Cook's  Court  in  the  ab- 
sence of  her  perjured  husband,  that  she  has  of  late  hab- 
itually carried  to  him  all  her  woes.  Everybody  it  ap- 
pears, the  present  company  excepted,  has  plotted  against 
Mrs.  Snagsby's  peace.  There  is  Mr.  Guppy,  clerk  to 
Kenge  and  Carboy,  who  was  at  first  as  open  as  the  sun 
at  noon,  but  who  suddenly  shut  up  as  close  as  midnight, 
|Tflnder  the  influence — no  doubt — of  Mr.  Snagsby's  suborn- 
ing and  tampering.  There  is  Mr.  Weevle,  friend  of  Mr. 
Gfuppy,  who  lived  mysteriously  up  a  court,  owing  to  the 
like  coherent  causes.  There  was  Krook,  deceased ; 
there  was  Nimrod,  deceased  ;  and  there  was  Jo,  de- 
ceased ;  and  they  were  "all  in  it."  In  what,  Mrs. 
Snagsby  does  not  with  particularity  express  ;  but  she 
knows  that  Jo  was  Mr.  Snagsby's  son,  **as  well  as  if  a 
trumpet  had  spoken  it,"  and  she  followed  Mr.  Snagsby 
when  he  went  on  his  last  visit  to  the  boy,  and  if  he  was 
not  his  son  why  did  he  go  ?  The  one  occupation  of  her 
life  has  been,  for  some  time  back,  to  follow  Mr.  Snagsby 
to  and  fro,  and  up  and  down,  and  to  piece  suspicious  cir- 
cumstances together — and  every  circumstance  that  has 
happened  has  been  most  suspicious  ;  and  in  this  way  she 
has  pursued  her  object  of  detecting  and  confounding  her 
false  husband,  night  and  day.  Thus  did  it  come  to  pass 
that  she  brought  the  Chadbands  and  Mr.  Tulkinghorn 
together,  and  conferred  with  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  on  the 
change  in  Mr.  Guppy,  and  helped  to  turn  up  the  circum- 
stances in  which  the  present  company  are  interested, 
casually,  by  the  wayside  ;  being  still,  and  ever,  on  the 
great  high  road  that  is  to  terminate  in  Mr.  Snagsl3y*s  full 
exposure  and  a  matrimonial  separation.  All  this,  Mrs. 
Snagsby,  as  an  injured  woman,  and  the  friend  of  Mrs. 
Chadband,  and  the  follower  of  Mr.  Chadband,  and  the 
mourner  of  the  late  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  is  here  to  certify 
under  the  seal  of  confidence,  with  very  possible  confu- 
sion and  involvement  possible  and  impossible ;  having  no 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


13 


pecuniary  motive  whatever,  no  scheme  or  project  but  tlie 
one  mentioned  ;  and  bringing  here,  and  talking  every- 
where, her  own  dense  atmosphere  of  dust,  arising  from 
■6he  ceaseless  working  of  her  mill  of  jealousy. 
.  While  this  exordium  is  in  hand — and  it  takes  some 
dme — Mr.  Bucket,  who  has  seen  through  the  transpar- 
ency of  Mrs.  Snagsby's  vinegar  at  a  glance,  confers  with 
his  familiar  demon,  and  bestows  his  shrewd  attention  on 
the  Chadbands  and  Mr.  Smallweed.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock  remains  immoveable,  with  the  same  icy  surface 
upon  him :  except  that  he  once  or  twice  looks  towards 
Mr.  Bucket,  as  relying  on  that  officer  alone  of  all  man- 
kind. 

'•Very  good,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  **  Now  I  understand 
you,  you  know ;  and,  being  deputed  by  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  Baronet,  to  look  into  this  little  matter,"  again 
Sir  Leicester  mechanically  bows  in  confirmation  of  the 
statement,  "can  give  it  my  fair  and  full  attention.  Now 
I  won't  allude  to  conspiring  to  extort  money,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  because  we  are  men  and  women  of 
the  world  here,  and  our  object  is  to  make  things  pleas- 
ant. But  I  will  teil  you  what  I  do  wonder  at ;  I  am  sur- 
prised that  you  should  think  of  making  a  noise  below  in 
the  hall.  It  was  so  opposed  to  your  interests.  That's 
what  I  look  at." 

**  We  wanted  to  get  in,"  pleads  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"Why,  of  course,  you  wanted  to  get  in,"  Mr.  Bucket 
assents  with  cheerfulness  :  but  for  a  old  gentleman  ac 
your  time  of  life — what  I  call  truly  venerable,  mind 
you  ! — with  his  wits  sharpened,  as  I  have  no  doubt  they 
are,  by  the  loss  of  the  use  of  his  limbs,  which  occasions 
all  his  animation  to  mount  up  into  his  head — not  to  con- 
sider that  if  he  don't  keep  such  a  business  as  the  pres- 
ent as  close  as  possible  it  can't  be  worth  a  mag  to  him, 
lis  so  curious  I  You  see  your  temper  got  the  better  of 
you  ;  that's  where  you  lost  ground,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  in 
an  argumentative  and  friendly  way. 

"I  only  said  I  wouldn't  go,  without  one  of  the  ser- 
vants came  up  to  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,"  returns  Mr. 
Smallweed. 

"  That's  it  I  That's  where  your  temper  got  the  better 
of  you.  Now,  you  keep  it  under  another  time,  and 
you'll  make  money  by  it.  Shall  I  ring  for  them  to  carry 
you  down  ?  " 

"  When  are  we  to  hear  more  of  this  ?  "  Mrs.  Chad- 
band  sternly  demands. 

"  Bless  your  heart  for  a  true  woman  !  Always  curi- 
ous, your  delightful  sex  is  I "  replies  Mr.  Bucket,  with 
gallantry.  *'I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  you  a 
call  to-morrow  or  next  day — not  forgetting  Mr.  Small- 
Weed  and  his  proposal  of  two  fifty." 


14 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS.  ' 


**  Five  hundred  ! "  exclaims  Mr.  Small  weed. 

All  right  I  Nominally  five  hundred  ; "  Mr.  Bucket 
has  his  hand  on  the  bell-rope  ;  shaU  I  wish  you  good 
day  for  the  present,  on  the  part  of  myself  and  the  gen- 
tleman of  the  house  ?    he  asks  in  an  insinuating  tone. 

Nobody  having  the  hardihood  to  object  to  his  doing 
so,  he  does  it,  and  the  party  retire  as  they  came  up.  Mr. 
Bucket  follows  them  to  the  door  ;  and,  returning,  says 
with  an  air  of  serious  business  : — 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  it's  for  you  to  con- 
sider whether  or  not  to  buy  this  up.  I  should  recom- 
mend, on  the  whole,  it's  being  bought  up  myself  ;  and 
I  think  it  may  be  bought  pretty  cheap.  You  see,  that  lit- 
tle pickled  cucumber  of  a  Mrs.  Snagsby  -  as  been  used 
by  all  sides  of  the  speculation,  and  has  done  a  deal  more 
harm  in  bringing  odds  and  ends  together  than  if  she  had 
meant  it.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  deceased,  he  held  all  these 
horses  in  his  hand,  and  could  have  drove  'em  his  own 
way,  I  haven't  a  doubt ;  but  he  was  fetched  off  the  box 
head-foremost,  and  now  they  have  got  their  legs  over 
the  traces,  and  are  all  dragging  and  pulling  their  own 
ways.  So  it  is,  and  such  is  life.  The  cat's  away,  and 
the  mice  they  play  ;  the  frost  breaks  up,  and  the  water 
runs.  Now,  with  regard  to  the  party  to  be  appre- 
hended." 

Sir  Leicester  seems  to  wake,  though  his  eyes  have  been 
wide  open  ;  and  he  looks  intently  at  Mr.  Bucket,  as  Mr. 
Bucket  refers  to  his  watch. 

**The  party  to  be  apprehended  is  now  in  this  house," 
proceeds  Mr.  Bucket,  putting  up  his  watch  with  a  steady, 
band,  and  with  rising  spirits,  **  and  I'm  about  to  take 
jier  into  custody  in  your  presence.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock, Baronet,  don't  you  say  a  word,  nor  yet  stir.  There'll 
be  no  noise,  and  no  disturbance  at  all.  I'll  come  back  in 
the  course  of  the  evening  if  agreeable  to  you,  and  en- 
deavour to  meet  your  wishes;  respecting  this  unfortunate 
family  matter,  and  the  nobbiest  way  of  keeping  it  quiet. 
Now  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  don't  you  be  ner- 
vous on  account  of  the  apprehension  at  present  coming 
off.  You  shall  see  the  whole  case  clear,  from  first  to 
last." 

Mr.  Bucket  rings,  goes  to  the  door,  briefly  whispers 
Mercury,  shuts  the  door,  and  stands  behind  it  with  his 
arms  folded.  After  a  suspense  of  a  minute  or  two,  the 
door  slowly  opens,  and  a  French  woman  enters.  Mad- 
emoiselle Hortense. 

The  moment  she  is  in  the  room,  Mr.  Bucket  claps  the 
4oor  to,  and  puts  his  back  against  it.  The  suddenness 
of  the  noise  occasions  her  to  turn  ;  and  then,  for  the  first 
time,  she  sees  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  in  his  chair. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


15 


f  ask  your  pardon,"  she  mutters  hurriedly.  "  They 
^ell  me  there  was  no  one  here." 

Her  step  towards  the  door  brings  her  front  to  front ' 
with  Mr.  Bucket.    Suddenly  a  spasm  shoots  across  her 
face,  and  she  turns  deadly  pale. 

**  This  is  my  lodger.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,"  says  Mr. 
Bucket,  nodding  at  her.  This  foreign  young  woma:? 
has  been  my  lodger  for  some  weeks  back." 

**  What  do  Sir  Leicester  care  for  that,  ycu  think,  my 
angel  ?"  returns  Mademoiselle,  in  a  jocular  strain. 

*'Why,  my  angel,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  '*we  shall 
see." 

Mademoiselle  Hortense  eyes  him  with  a  scowl  upon 
her  tight  face,  which  gradually  changes  into  a  smile  of 
scorn,    **you  are  very  mysterieuse.    Are  you  drunk?" 

*^  Tolerable  sober,  ray  angel,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket. 

"I  come  from  r.rriving  at  this  so  detestable  house  with 
your  wife.  Your  wife  have  left  me,  since  some  min- 
utes. They  tell  me  down-stairs  that  your  wife  is  here.  I 
come  here,  and  your  wife  is  not  here.  What  is  the  in- 
tention of  this  fool's  play,  say  then  ?  "  Mademoiselle  de- 
mands, with  her  arms  composedly  crossed,  but  with 
something  in  her  dark  cheek  beating  like  a  clock. 

Mr.  Bucket  merely  shakes  the  finger  at  her. 

**  Ah,  my  God,  you  are  an  unhappy  idiot  I"  cries  Mad 
emoiselle,  with  a  toss  of  her  head  and  a  laugh. — Leave 
tne  to  pass  down-stairs,  great  pig."  With  a  stamp  of  her 
foot,  and  a  menace. 

Now,  Mademoiselle,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  in  a  cool  de- 
termined way,  **you  go  and  sit  down  upon  that  sofy." 

I  will  not  sit  down  upon  nothing,"  she  replies,  with 
a  shower  of  nods. 

*'  Now,  Mademoiselle,"  repeats  Mr.  Bucket,  making 
no  demonstration,  except  with  the  finger  ;  *'you  sit  down 
upon  that  sofy." 

''Why?" 

Because  I  take  you  into  custody  on  a  charge  of  mur- 
der, and  you  don't  need  to  be  told  it.  Now,  I  want  to  be 
polite  to  one  of  your  sex  and  a  foreigner,  if  I  can.  If  I 
can't,  I  must  be  rough  ;  andthers's  rougher  ones  outside. 
What  I  am  to  be,  depends  on  you.  So  I  recommend 
you,  as  a  friend,  afore  another  half  a  blessed  momeht 
has  passed  over  your  head,  to  go  and  sit  down  upon  that 
sofy." 

Mademoiselle  complies,  saying  in  a  concentrated  voice, 
while  that  something  in  her  cheek  beats  fast  and  hard, 
"You  are  a  Devil." 

**  Nov,  you  see,"  Mr.  Bucket  proceeds  approvingly, 
"you're  comfortable,  and  conducting  yourself  as  I  should 
expect  a  foreign  young  woman  of  your  sense  to  do.  So 
I'll  give  you  a  piece  of  advice,  and  it's  this.  Don't  you 


16 


WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


talk  too  much.  You're  not  expected  to  say  anything 
here,  and  you  can't  keep  too  quiet  a  tongue  in  your 
head.  In  short,  the  less  you  Parlay,  the  better,  you 
know."  Mr.  Bucket  is  very  complacent  over  this  French 
explanation. 

Mademoiselle,  with  that  tigerish  expansion  of  the 
mouth,  and  her  black  eyes  darting  fire  upon  him,  sits 
upright  on  the  sofa  in  a  rigid  state,  with  her  hands 
clenched — and  her  feet  too,  one  might  suppose — mutter- 
ing, "O,  you  Bucket,  you  are  a  Devil  !  " 

*'  Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  says  Mr. 
Bucket,  and  from  this  time  forth  the  finger  never  rests, 
"this  young  woman,  my  lodger,  was  her  Ladyship's 
maid  at  the  time  I  have  mentioned  to  you  ;  and  this 
young  woman,  besides  being  extraordinary  vehement 
and  passionate  against  her  Ladyship  after  being  dis- 
charged— " 

*'  Lie  ! "  cries  Mademoiselle.    *'  I  discharge  myself. " 

*'Now,  why  don't  you  take  my  advice?"  returns  Mr. 
Bucket,  in  an  impressive,  almost  in  an  imploring  tone. 
*'  I'm  surprised  at  the  indiscreetness  you  commit.  You'll 
say  something  that'll  be  used  against  you,  you  know. 
You're  sure  to  come  to  it.  Never  you  mind  what  I  say, 
till  it's  given  in  evidence.    It's  not  addressed  to  you." 

'*  Discharge,  too  ! "  cries  Mademoiselle,  furiously, 
*'by  her  Ladyship  !  Eh,  my  faith,  a  pretty  Ladyship  I 
Why,  I  r-r-r-ruin  my  character  by  remaining  with  a 
Ladyship  so  in  fame  !  " 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  wonder  at  you  !"  Mr.  Bucket  re- 
monstrates. I  thought  the  French  were  a  polite 
nation,  I  did,  really.  Yet  to  hear  a  female  going  on  like 
that,  before  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet ! " 

He  is  a  poor  abused  I "  cries  Mademoiselle.  "  I  spit 
upon  his  house,  upon  his  name,  upon  his  imbecility,"  all 
of  which  she  makes  the  carpet  represent.  "Ok,  that  he 
is  a  great  man  I    O  yes,  superb  !    O  heaven  !   Bah  I " 

"  Well,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,"  proceeds  Mr.  Bucket, 
*'  this  intemperate  foreigner  also  angrily  took  it  into  her 
head  that  she  had  established  a  claim  upon  Mr.  Tulking- 
horn,  deceased,  by  attending  on  the  occasion  I  told  you 
of,  at  his  chambers  ;  though  she  was  liberally  paid  for 
her  time  and  trouble." 

"Lie!"  cries  Mademoiselle.  "I  ref-use  his  money 
altogezzer." 

("If  you  will  Parlay,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
parenthetically,  "you  must  take"  the  consequences.) 
Now,  whether  she  became  my  lodger.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock, with  any  deliberate  intention  then  of  doing  this 
deed  and  blinding  me,  I  give  no  opinion  on  ;  but  she 


was  hovering  about  the  chambers  of  the  deceased  Mr. 


lived  in  my  houi 


that  capacity,  at  the  time  that  she 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  17 

Tulkinghorn  with  a  view  to  a  wrangle,  and  likewise  per- 
secuting and  half  frightening  the  life  out  of  an  unfor- 
tunate stationer." 

"  Lie  I"  cries  Mademoiselle.  All  lie  I" 
'*  The  murder  was  committed.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet ,  and  you  know  under  what  circumstances,  JM  ow, 
I  beg  of  you  to  follow  me  close  with  your  attention  for  a 
minute  or  two.  I  was  sent  for,  and  the  case  was  entrust- 
ed to  me.  I  examined  the  place,  and  the  body,  and  the 
papers,  and  everything.  From  information  I  received 
(from  a  clerk  in  the  same  house)  I  took  George  into  cus- 
tody, as  having  been  seen  hanging  about  there,  on  the 
night,  and  at  very  nigh  the  time,  of  the  murder  ;  also, 
as  having  been  overheard  in  high  words  with  the  de- 
.  ceased  on  former  occasions — even  threatening  him,  as  the 
witness  made  out.  If  you  ask  me.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock,  whether  from  the  first  I  believed  George  to  be  the 
murderer,  I  tell  you  candidly  No  ;  but  he  might  be,  not" 
withstanding  ;  and  there  was  enough  against  him  to 
make  it  my  duty  to  take  him,  and  get  him  kept  under  re- 
mand.   Now,  observe  ! " 

As  Mr.  Bucket  bends  forward  in  some  excitement — 
for  him — and  inaugurates  what  he  is  going  to  say  with 
one  ghostly  beat  of  his  forefinger  in  the  air,  Mademoi- 
selle Hortense  fixes  her  black  eyes  upon  him  vrith  a 
dark  frown,  and  sets  her  dry  lips  closely  and  firmly  to 
gether. 

**I  went  home.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  at 
night,  and  found  this  young  woman  having  supper  with 
my  vnfe,  Mrs.  Bucket.  She  had  made  a  mighty  show  of 
being  fond  of  Mrs.  Bucket  from  her  first  offering  herself 
as  our  lodger,  but  that  night  she  made  more  than  ever — 
in  fact  overdid  it..  Likewise  she  overdid  her  respect,  and 
all  that,  for  the  lamented  memory  of  the  deceased  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn.  By  the  living  Lord  it  flashed  upon  me,  as 
I  sat  opposite  to  her  at  the  table  and  saw  her  with  a 
knife  in  her  hand,  that  she  had  done  it  !  '* 

Mademoiselle  is  hardly  audible,  in  straining  through 
her  teeth  and  lips  the  words    You  are  a  Devil.*' 

**  Now  where,'*  pursues  Mr.  Bucket,  had  she  been  on 
the  night  of  the  murder  ?  She  had  been  to  the  theayter. 
(She  really  was  there,  I  have  since  found,  both  before 
the  deed  and  after  it.)  I  knew  I  had  an  artful  customer 
to  deal  with,  and  that  proof  would  be  verydifiicult ;  and 
I  laid  a  trap  for  her — such  a  trap  as  I  never  laid  yet,  and 
such  a  venture  as  I  never  made  yet.  I  worked  it  out  in 
my  mind  while  I  was  talking  to  her  at  supper.  When  I 
went  up-stairs  to  bed,  our  house  being  small  and  this 
young  woman's  ears  sharp,  I  stuffed  the  sheet  into  Mrs, 
Bucket's  mouth  that  she  shouldn't  say  a  word  of  sur- 
prise, and  told  her  all  about  it. — My  dear,  don't  you  give 


18 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


your  mind  to  that  again,  or  I  sliall  link  your  feet  to- 
gether at  the  .ancles."  Mr.  Bucket,  breaking  off,  has 
made  a  noiseless  descent  upon  Mademoiselle,  and  laid  his 
heavy  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

Whart  is  the  matter  with  you  now  ?  **  she  asks  him. 
"  Don't  you  think  any  more,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket, 
with  admonitory  finger,  of  throwing  yourself  out  of 
window.  That's  what's  the  matter  with  me.  Come  J 
Just  take  my  arm.  You  needn't  get  up  ;  I'll  sit  down  by 
you.  Now,  take  my  arm,  will  you.  I'm  a  married  man, 
you  know  ;  you're  acquainted  with  my  wife.  Just  take 
my  arm." 

Vainly  endeavouring  to  moisten  those  dry  lips,  with  a 
painful  sound,  she  struggles  with  herself  and  complies. 

**Now  we're  all  right  again.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock. 
Baronet,  this  case  could  never  have  been  the  case  it  is, 
but  for  Mrs  Bucket,  who  is  a  woman  in  fifty  thousand— 
in  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  I  To  throw  this  young 
woman  off  her  guard,  I  have  never  set  foot  in  our  house 
since ;  though  I've  communicated  with  Mrs.  Bucket,  in 
the  baker's  loaves  and  in  the  milk,  as  often  as  required. 
My  whispered  words  to  Mrs.  Bucket,  when  she  had  the 
sheet  in  her  muoth  were,  *  My  dear,  can  you  throw  her 
off  continually  with  natural  accounts  of  my  suspicions 
against  George,  and  this,  and  that,  and  t'other?  Can 
you  do  without  rest,  and  keep  watch  upon  her  night  and 
day  ?  Can  you  undertake  to  say.  She  shall  do  nothing 
without  my  knowledge,  she  shall  be  my  prisoner  with, 
out  suspecting  it,  she  shall  no  more  escape  from  me 
than  from  death,  and  her  life  shall  be  my  life,  and  her 
soul  my  soul,  till  I  have  got  her,  if  she  did  this  mur- 
der?' Mrs.  Bucket  says  to  me,  as  well  as  she  could 
speak,  on  account  of  the  sheet,  *  Bucket,  I  can  !  *  And 
she  has  acted  up  to  it  glorious  !  " 

"Lies  I"  Mademoiselle  interposes.  **A11  lies,  my 
friend  I " 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  how  did  my  calcu- 
lations come  out  under  these  circumstances?  When  I 
calculated  that  this  impetuous  young  woman  would 
overdo  it  in  new  directions,  was  I  wrong  or  right  ?  I 
was  right.  What  does  she  try  to  do?  Don't  let  it  give 
you  a  turn  ?    To  throw  the  murder  on  her  Ladyship." 

Sir  Leicester  rises  from  his  chair,  and  staggers  down 
again. 

And  she  got  encouragement  in  it  from  hearing  that 
I  was  always  here,  which  was  done  a'  purpose.  Now, 
open  that  pocket-book  of  mine.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
if  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  throwing  it  towards  you, 
and  look  at  the  letter  sent  to  me,  each  with  the  two 
words.  Lady  Dedlock,  in  it.  Open  the  one  directed  to 
yourself,  which  I  stopped  this  very  morning,  and  read 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


19 


the  three  words.  Lady  Deblock,  Mtjrderess,  in  it. 
These  letters  have  been  falling  about  like  a  shower  of 
^ady-birds.  What  do  you  say  now  to  Mrs.  Bucket,  from 
her  spy- place,  having  seen  them  all  written  by  this 
young  woman  ?  What  do  you  say  to  Mrs.  Bucket  hav- 
ing, within  this  half-hour,  secured  the  corresponding 
ink  and  paper,  fellow  half -sheets,  and  what  not  ?  What 
do  you  say  to  Mrs.  Bucket  having  watched  the  posting 
of  'em  every  one  by  this  young  woman.  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  Baronet?"  Mr.  Bucket  asks,  triumphant  in 
his  admiration  of  his  lady's  genius. 

Two  things  are  especially  observable,  as  Mr.  Bucket 
proceeds  to  a  conclusion.  First,  that  he  seems  imper- 
ceptibly to  establish  a  dreadful  right  of  property  in 
Mademoiselle.  Secondly,  that  the  very  atmosphere  she 
breathes  seems  to  narrow  and  contract  about  her,  as  if 
a  close  net,  or  a  pall,  were  being  drawn  nearer  and 
yet  nearer  around  her  breathless  figure. 

*'  There's  no  doubt  that  her  Ladyship  was  on  the  spot 
at  the  eventful  period,"  says  Mr.  Bucket;  *'and  my 
foreign  friend  here  saw  her,  I  believe  from  the  upper 
part  of  the  staircase.  Her  Ladyship  and  George  and  my 
foreign  friend  were  all  pretty  close  on  one  another's 
heels.  But  that  don't  signify  any  more,  so  I'll  not  go 
into  it.  I  found  the  wadding  of  the  pistol  with  which 
the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  was  shot.  It  was  a  bit 
of  the  printed  description  of  your  house  at  Chesney 
Wold.  Not  much  in  that,  you'll  say.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock, Baronet.  No.  But  when  my  foreign  friend  here  is 
so  thoroughly  off  her  guard  as  to  think  it  a  safe  time  to 
tear  up  the  rest  of  that  leaf,  and  when  Mrs.  Bucket 
puts  the  pieces  together  and  finds  the  wadding  wanting, 
it  begins  to  look  like  Queer  street," 

"  These  are  very  long  lies,"  Mademoiselle  interposes. 

You:  prose  great  deal.  Is  it  that  you  have  almost  all 
finished,  or  are  you  speaking  always?" 

*'  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  proceeds  Mr.  Buck- 
et, who  delights  in  a  full  title,  and  does  violence  to 
himself  when  he  dispenses  with  any  fragment  of  it, 
*'the  last  point  in  the  case  which  I  am  now  going  to 
mention,  shows  the  necessity  of  patience  in  our  busi- 
ness, and  never  doing  a  thing  in  a  hurry.  I  watched 
this  young  woman  yesterday,  without  her  knowledge, 
when  she  was  looking  at  the  funeral,  in  company  with 
my  wife,  who  planned  to  take  her  there  ;  and  I  had  so 
much  to  convict  her,  and  I  saw  such  an  expression  in 
her  face,  and  my  mind  so  rose  against  her  malice  to- 
wards her  Ladyship,  and  the  time  was  altogether  such 
a  time  for  bringing  down  what  you  may  call  retribution 
upon  her,  that  if  I  had  been  a  younger  hand  with  less 
experience,  I  should  have  taken  her,  certain.  Equally, 


20 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


last  night,  when  her  Ladyship,  as  is  so  universally  ad- 
mired I  am  sure,  come  home,  looking — why,  Lord  !  a  man 
might  almost  say  like  Venus  rising  from  the  ocean,  it 
was  so  unpleasant  and  inconsistent  to  think  of  her  being 
charged  with  a  murder  of  which  she  was  innocent,  that  1 
felt  quite  to  want  to  put  an  end  to  the  job.  What 
should  I  have  lost  ?  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I 
should  have  lost  the  weapon.  My  prisoner  here  pro- 
posed to  Mrs.  Bucket,  after  the  departure  of  the  funeral, 
that  they  should  go,  per  buss,  a  little  ways  into  the 
country,  and  take  tea  at  a  very  decent  house  of  enter- 
tainment. Now,  near  that  house  of  entertainment 
there's  a  piece  of  water.  At  tea,  my  prisoner  got  up  to 
fetch  her  pockethandkercher  from  the  bed-room  where 
the  bonnets  was  ;  she  was  rather  a  long  time  gone,  and 
came  back  a  little  out  of  wind.  As  soon  as  they  came 
fiome  this  was  reported  to  me  by  Mrs.  Bucket,  along 
with  her  observations  and  suspicions.  I  had  the  piece 
of  water  dragged  by  moonlight,  in  presence  of  a  couple 
of  our  men,  and  the  pocket-pistol  was  brought  up  beforq 
it  had  been  there  half-a-dozen  hours.  Now,  my  dear, 
put  your  arm  a  little  further  through  mine,  and  hold  it 
steady,  and  I  sha'n't  hurt  you  ! " 

In  a  trice  Mr.  Bucket  snaps  a  handcuff  on  her  wrist. 
"That's  one,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  *'Now  the  other, 
darling.    Two,  and  all  told  ! " 

He  rises  ;  she  rises  too.  "  Where,"  she  asks  him, 
darkening  her  large  eyes  until  their  drooping  lids  almost 
conceal  them — and  yet  they  stare,  *'  where  is  your  false, 
your  treacherous  and  cursed  wife  ?" 

She's  gone  forrard  to  the  Police  Office,"  returns  Mr. 
Bucket.       You'll  see  her  there,  my  dear." 

*'I  would  like  to  kiss  her  ?"  exclaims  Mademoiselle 
Hortense,  panting  tigress-like. 

**  You'd  bite  her,  I  suspect,'*  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

*'  I  would  I "  making  her  eyes  very  large.  I  would 
love  to  tear  her,  limb  from  limb." 

'*  Bless  you,  darling,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  with  the 
greatest  composure  ;  I'm  fully  prepared  to  hear  that. 
Your  sex  have  such  a  surprising  animosity  against  one 
another,  when  you  do  differ.  You  don't  mind  me  half  sp 
much,  do  you  ?" 

"  No.    Though  you  are  a  Devil  still." 

**  Angel  and  devil  by  turns,  eh  ?  "  cries  Mr.  Bucket. 
"  But  I  am  in  my  regular  employment,  you  must  con- 
sider. Let  me  put  your  shawl  tidy.  I've  been  lady's 
fnaid  to  a  good  many  before  now.  Anything  wanting 
lo  thte  oonnet?    There's  a  cab  at  the  door." 

Mademoiselle  Hortense,  casting  an  indignant  eye  at 
the  glass,  shakes  herself  perfectly  neat  in  one  shake, 
and  looks,  to  do  her  justice,  uncommonly  genteel. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


21 


**Juisten  tlien,  my  angel,"  says  she,  after  several  sar- 
castic nods.  You  are  very  spiritual.  But  can  you  re- 
store him  back  to  life  ?  " 

Mr.  Bucket  answers,     Not  exactly." 

*•  That  is  droll.    Listen  yet  one  time.    You  are  very 
spiritual.    Can  you  make  a  honourable  lady  of  Her?  " 
Don't  be  so  'malicious,"  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

"  Or  a  haughty  gentleman  of  Him  ?  "  cries  Mademoi^ 
selle,  referring  to  Sir  Leicester  with  ineffable  disdain. 
*'Eli!  O  then  regard  him  I  The  poor  infant  1  Hal 
ha!  ha 

"  Come,  come,  why  this  is  worse  Parlaying  than  the 
other,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.       Come  along  !" 

You  cannot  do  these  things?  Then  yon  can  do  as 
you  please  with  me.  It  is  but  the  death,  it  is  all  the 
same.  Let  us  go,  my  angel.  Adieu  you  old  man,  grey. 
I  pity  you,  and  I  des-pise  you  ! " 

With  these  last  words,  she  snaps  her  teeth  together, 
if  her  mouth  closed  with  a  spring.  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  how  Mr.  Bucket  gets  her  out,  but  he  accom- 
plishes  that  feat  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  himself  ;  en- 
folding and  pervading  her  like  a  cloud,  and  hovering 
away  with  her  as  if  he  were  a  homely  Jupiter,  and  she 
the  object  of  his  affections. 

Sir  Leicester,  left  alone,  remains  in  the  same  attitude 
as  though  he  were  still  listening,  and  his  attention  were 
still  occupied.  At  length  he  gazes  round  the  empty  room, 
and  finding  it  deserted,  rises  unsteadily  to  his  feet, 
pushes  back  his  chair,  and  walks  a  few  steps,  support 
ing  himself  by  the  table.  Then  he  stops  ;  and,  with 
more  of  those  inarticulate  sounds,  lifts  up  his  eyes  and 
seems  to  stare  at  something. 

Heaven  knows  what  he  sees.  The  green,  green  woods 
of  Chesney  Wold,  the  noble  house,  the  pictures  of  hi? 
forefathers,  strangers  defacing  them,  officers  of  police 
coarsely  handling  his  most  precious  heir-looms,  thou- 
sands of  fingers  pointing  at  him,  thousands  of  facet 
sneering  at  him.  But  if  such  shadows  flit  before  him  to 
his  bewilderment,  there  is  one  other  shadow  which  he 
can  name  with  something  like  distinctness  even  yet, 
and  to  which  alone  he  addresses  his  tearing  of  his  white 
hair,  and  his  extended  arms. 

It  is  she,  in  association  with  whom,  saving  that  she 
has  been  for  years  a  main  fibre  of  the  root  of  his  dig- 
nity and  pride,  he  has  never  had  a  selfish  thought.  It 
is  she  whom  he  has  loved,  admired,  honoured,  and  set 
up  for  the  world  to  respect.  It  is  she.  who.  at  the  core 
Df  all  the  constrained  formalities  and  conventionalities 
of  his  life,  has  been  a  stock  of  living  tenderness  and 
love,  susceptible  as  nothing  else  is  of  being  struck  with 
the  agon^y  he  feels.   He  sees  her,  almost  to  the  exclusion 


32 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


of  himself ;  and  cannot  Ibear  to  look  upon  lier  cast  dowo 
from  the  high  place  she  has  graced  so  well. 

And,  even  to  the  point  of  his  sinking  on  the  ground,  oh- 
hvious  of  his  suffering,  he  can  yet  pronounce  her  name 
with  something  like  distinctness  in  the  midst  of  those 
Hitrusive  sounds,  and  in  a  tone  of  mourning  and  compas- 
sion rather  than  reproach. 


CHAPTER  LV. 
Flight, 

Inspector  Bucket  of  the  Detective  has  not  yet  struck 
his  great  blow,  as  just  now  chronicled,  but  is  yet  refresh- 
ing himself  with  sleep  preparatory  to  his  field-day,  when, 
through  the  night  and  along  the  freezing  wintry  roads, 
a  chaise  and  pair  comes  out  of  Lincolnshire,,  making  its 
way  towards  London. 

Railroads  shall  soon  traverse  all  this  country,  and  with 
a  rattle  and  a  glare  the*  engine  and  train  shall  shoot  like 
a  meteor  over  the  wide  night-landscape,  turning  the 
moon  paler  ;  but,  as  yet,  such  things  are  non-existent  in 
these  parts,  though  not  wholly  unexpected.  Prepara- 
tions are  afoot,  measurements  are  made,  ground  is  staked 
out.  Bridges  are  begun,  and  their  not  yet  united  piers 
desolately  look  at  one  another  over  roads  and  streams, 
like  brick  and  mortar  couples  with  an  obstacle  to  their 
union ;  fragments  of  embankments  are  thrown  up,  and 
left  as  precipices  with  torrents  of  rusty  carts  and  barrows 
tumbling  over  them ;  tripods  of  tall  poles  appear  on 
hill-tops,  where  there  are  rumours  of  tunnels  ;  every- 
thing looks  chaotic,  and  abandoned  in  fell  hopelessness. 
Along  the  freezing  roads,  and  through  the  night,  the 
post-chaise  makes  its  way  without  a  railroad  on  its  mind. 

Mrs.  Rouncewell,  so  many  years  housekeeper  at  Ches- 
siey  Wold,  sits  within  the  chaise  ;  and  by  her  side  sits 
Mrs.  Bagnet  with  her  grey  cloak  and  umbrella.  The  old 
girl  would  prefer  the  bar  in  front,  as  being  exposed  to 
the  weather,  and  a  primitive  sort  of  perch  more  in  ac- 
cordance with  her  usual  course  of  travelling ;  but  Mrs. 
Rouncewell  is  too  thoughtful  of  her  comfort  to  admit  oi 
her  proposing  it.  The  old  lady  cannot  make  enough  oi 
the  old  girl.  She  sits,  in  her  stately  manner,  holding 
her  hand,  and,  regardless  of  its  roughness,  puts  it  often 
to  her  lips.  **  You  are  a  mother,  my  dear  soul,"  says  she 
many  times,    and  you  found  out  my  George's  mother  !' 

**  Why,  George,"  returns  Mrs.  Bagnet,  was  always 
free  with  me,  ma'am,  and  when  he  said  at  our  house  to 
my  Woolwich,  that  of  all  the  things  my  W   Iwich  could 


BLi5AK  HOUSE. 


28 


have  to  think  v>f  when  he  grew  to  he  a  man,  the  comfort- 
ablest  would  be  that  he  had  never  brorght  a  sorrowful 
line  into  his  mother's  face,  or  turned  a  hair  of  her  head 
grey,  then  I  felt  sure,  from  his  way,  that  something  fresh 
had  brought  his  own  mother  into  his  mind.  I  had  ofteu 
known  him  say  to  me,  in  past  times,  that  he  had  behavec 
bad  to  her/* 

"  Never,  my  dear  ! "  returns  Mrs.  Rouncewell,  burstmg 
into  tears.  **My  blessing  on  him,  never  !  He  was  rl 
wavs  fond  of  me,  and  loving  to  me,  was  my  George  '  Bu; 
he  had  a  bold  spirit,  and  he  ran  a  little  wild,  nd  went 
for  a  soldier.  And  I  know  he  waited  at  ..rst,  in  letting 
as  know  about  himself,  till  he  should  rise  to  be  an  officer* 
and  when  he  didn't  nse,  I  know  he  considered  himscL 
beneath  ns,  and  wo\iMn't  be  a  disgrace  to  us.  For  he  had 
B  lion  heart,  had  my  George,  always  from  a  bab;  I" 

The  old  lady's  hands  stray  about  her  as  of  yore,  whiiC 
she  recals,  all  in  a  tremble,  what  a  likely  lad,  what  a 
fine  lad,  what  a  gay  good-humoured  clever  lad  he  was ; 
tiow  they  all  took  to  him,  down  at  Chesney  Wold  •  how 
Sir  Leicester  took  to  him  when  he  was  a  young  gentleman  ; 
how  the  dogs  took  to  him  ;  how  even  the  people,  who 
had  been  angry  with  him,  forgave  him  the  moment  he 
was  gone,  poor  boy.  And  now  to  see  him  after  all,  and 
in  a  prison  too  !  And  the  broad  stomacher  heaves,  and 
the  quaint  upright  old-fashioned  figure  bends  under  its 
load  of  affectionate  distress. 

Mrs.  Bagnet,  with  the  instinctive  skill  of  a  good  wanfc 
heart,  leaves  the  old  housekeeper  to  her  emotions  for  a 
little  while — not  without  passing  the  back  of  her  hand 
across  her  own  motherly  eyes — and  presently  chirps  up 
in  her  cheery  manner  : 

So  I  says  to  George  when  I  goes  to  call  him  in  to  tefc 
(he  pretended  to  be  smoking  his  pipe  outside),  '  What 
ails  you  this  afternoon,  George,  for  gracious  sake  ?  I  have 
seen  all  sorts,  and  I  have  seen  you  pretty  often  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  abroad  and  at  home,  and  I  never  see 
you  so  melancholy  penitent/  '  Why,  Mrs.  Bagnet,'  sar^ 
George,  '  it's  because  I  am  melancholly  and  penitent  bothj 
this  afternoon,  that  you  see  me  so.'  '  What  have  you 
done,  old  fellow  ? '  I  says.  *  Why,  Mrs.  Bagnet,'  says 
George,  shaking  his  head,  *  what  I  have  done  has  beer 
done  this  many  a  long  year,  and  is  best  not  tried  to  be 
undone  now.  If  I  ever  get  to  Heaven,  it  won't  be  for 
being  a  good  son  to  a  widowed  mother ;  I  say  no  more. 
Now,  ma'am,  when  George  says  to  me  that  it's  best,  not 
tried  to  be  undone  now,  I  have  my  thoughts  as  I  Lave 
often  had  before,  and  I  draw  it  out  of  George  how  he 
comes  to  have  such  things  on  him  that  afternoon.  Then 
George^  tells  me  that  he  has  seen  by  chance,  at  the  law- 
yer's office,  a  fine  old  lady  that  has  brought  his  mother 


24 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


plain  before  him  ;  and  lie  runs  on  about  that  old  ^ady  till 
he  quite  forgets  himself,  an  paints  j  er  picture  to  me  as 
she  used  to  be,  years  up  years  back.  So  I  says  to 
George  when  he  has  done,  wh  is  this  old  lady  he  has 
seen?  And  George  tells  me  i  s  Mrs.  Rouncewell,  house- 
keeper for  more  than  half  a  century  to  the  Dedlock  family 
down  at  Chesney  Wold  in  Lincolnshire.  George  has 
frequently  told  me  before  that  he's  a  Lincolnshire  man, 
and  I  says  to  my  old  Lignum  that  night.  Lignum,  that's 
his  mother  for  iive-and-for-ty  pound  1 '  " 

All  this  Mrs.  Bagnet  now  relates  for  the  twentieth 
time  at  least  within  the  last  four  hours.  Trilling  it  out, 
like  a  kind  of  bird  ;  with  a  pretty  high  note,  that  it  may 
be  audible  to  the  old  lady  above  the  hum  of  the  wheels. 

"  BlobS  you,  and  thank  you,''  says  Mrs.  Rouncewell 
'  Bl  ss  you,  and  thank  you,  my  worthy  soul  ! " 

*  De  .r  heart  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Bagnet,  in  the  most  natu- 
ral manner.  **  No  thanks  to  me,  I  am  sure.  Thanks  to 
yourself,  ma'am,  for  being  so  ready  to  pay  'em  I  And 
mind  once  more,  ma'am,  what  you  had  best  do  on  find- 
ing George  to  be  your  own  son,  is,  to  make  him — for 
your  sake — have  every  sort  of  help  to  put  himself  in  the 
right  and  clear  himself  of  a  charge  of  whi  h  he  is  ae 
innocent  ..s  you  or  m:.  It  won'  do  to  have  truth  and 
justi  e  on  his  sid  ;  h  must  have  1  w  and  lawye  rs,  ex- 
claims he  old  girl,  apparently  persuaded  that  t"  e  latter 
form  a  separate  establishment,  and  have  dissolved  part* 
nership  with  truth  and  justice  for  ever  and  a  davo  . 

*'H  shall  have,"  says  Mrs.  Rouncewell,  all  the 
help  tha  can  be  got  for  him  in  the  worlu,  my  dear.  I 
will  spend  all  J  have,  and  thank  ullj ,  t  procure  it. 
Sir  Leicester  will  do  his  '  est,  the  ^  hoi  family  will  do 
their  best.  I — I  know  som  thin  j  '.car  and  will 
lake  my  own  appeal  as  his  mothe  parte  from  him  all 
the  e  years,  and  finding  Lim  in  a  jail  a  las 

^h.r  extreme  disquietude  o^  hp  ol  housLke^per's 
.nam^e  in  saying  this,  her  roken  wo  ds,  an  he  ring^ 
ing  f  her  hands,  make  a  powerful  impression  v.n  Mrco 
Bag.ie^  and  would  astonis'  her  ou+  thai  sh^  efera 
hem  ar  t  her  sorrow  for  her  son  j  conditi  n.  Ai  fe^ 
Mrs.  i>agnet  winders,  too,  why  Mr..  Kouncev  ell  shjnl<a 
murmur  so  distractedly,  "My  Lady  my  Lady,  my 
Lady  !  "  over  and  over  again. 

The  frosty  night  wears  away,  and  h*.  dawn  breaks, 
and  th-^  post-chaise  comes  rolling  on  through  the  arly 
mist,  '^ke  the  ghof?i;  of  a  chaise  departed.  It  has  plenty 
of  spectral  company,  in  ghosts  of  trees  and  hedges^ 
slowly  vanishing  and  giving  plac^  to  the  realities  of 
day.  London  reached,  the  travellers  alight  ;  the  old 
Iiousl  keeper  in  great  tribulation  and  confusion  ;  Mrs. 
liagnet,  ^iuite  fresh  and  collected — as  she  would  be,  if 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


25 


her  next  point,  with  no  new  equipage  and  outfit,  were 
tlie  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the  Island  of  Ascension,  Hong 
Kong,  or  any  other  military  station. 

But  when  they  set  out*  for  the  prison  where  the 
trooper  is  confined,  the  old  lady  has  managed  to  draw 
about  her,  with  her  lavender-coloured  dress,  much  of 
the  st^id  calmness  which  is  its  usual  accomnaniment 
A  wonderfully  grave,  precise,  and  handsome  piece  of 
old  china  she  looks  ;  though  her  heart  beats  fast,  and 
her  stomacher  is  ruffled  more  than  even  the  remembrance 
of  this  wayward  son  has  ruffled  it  these  many  years. 

Approaching  the  cell,  they  find  the  door  opening  and 
a  warder  in  the  act  of  coming  out.  The  old  girl  promptly 
makes  a  sign  of  entreaty  to  him  to  say  nothing  ;  assent- 
ing, with  a  nod,  he  suffers  them  to  enter  as  he  shuts 
the  door. 

So,  George,  who  is  writing  at  his  table,  supposing 
himself  to  be  alone,  does  not  raise  his  eyes,  but  remains 
absorbed.  The  old  housekeeper  looks  at  him,  and  those 
wandering  hands  of  hers  are  quite  enough  for  Mrs. 
Bagnet's  confirmation  ;  even  if  she  could  see  the  mother 
and  the  son  together,  knowing  what  she  knows,  and 
doubt  their  relationship. 

Not  a  rustle  of  the  housekeeper's  dress,  not  a  gesture, 
not  a  word  betrays  her.  She  stands  looking  at  him  as 
he  writes  on,  all  unconscious,  and  only  her  fluttering 
haii^ds  give  utterance  to  her  emotions.  But  they  are 
very  eloquent ;  very,  very  eloquent.  Mrs.  Bagnet  under- 
stands them.  They  speak  of  gratitude,  of  joy,  of  grief, 
of  hope  ;  of  inextinguishable  affection,  cherished  with  no 
return  since  this  stalwart  man  was  a  stripling  ;  of  a  bet- 
ter son  loved  less,  and  this  son  loved  so  fondly  and  so 
proudly  ;  and  they  speak  in  such  touching  language, 
that  Mrs.  Bagnet's  eyes  brim  up  with  tears,  and  they 
run  glistenmg  down  her  sun -brown  face. 

George  Rouncewell !  O  my  dear  child,  turn  and 
look  at  me  ! " 

The  trooper  starts  up,  clasps  his  mother  round  the 
neck,  and  falls  down  on  his  knees  before  her.  Whether 
in  a  late  repentance,  whether  in  the  first  association  that 
comes  back  upon  him,  he  puts  his  hands  together  as  a 
child  does  when  it  says  its  prayers,  and  raising  them  to- 
wards her  breast,  bows  down  his  head,  and  cries. 

My  George,  my  dearest  son  1  Always  my  favourite, 
and  my  favourite  still,  where  have  you  been  these  cruel 
years  and  years  ?  Grown  such  a  man,  too,  grown  such  a 
fine  strong  man.  Grown  so  like  what  I  knew  he  must 
be,  if  it  pleased  God  he  was  alive  !" 

She  can  ask,  and  he  can  answer,  nothing  connected 
for  a  time.  All  that  time  the  old  girl,  turned  away, 
leans  one  arm  against  the  whitened  wall,  leans  her  hon- 


26 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


est  forehead  upon  it,  wipes  her  eyes  with  her  serviceable 
grey  cloak,  and  quite  enjoys  herself  like  the  best  of  old 
girls  as  she  is. 

Mother,"  says  the  trooper,  when  they  are  more  com- 
posed ;  ''forgive  me  first  of  all,  for  I  know  my  need  of 
it." 

Forgive  him  !  She  does  it  with  all  her  heart  and 
soul.  Slie  always  has  done  it.  She  tells  him  how  she 
has  had  it  written  in  her  will,  these  many  years,  that  he 
was  her  beloved  son  George.  She  has  never  believed 
any  ill  of  him,  never.  If  she  had  died  without  this  hap- 
piness— and  she  is  an  old  woman  now,  and  can't  look  to 
live  very  long — she  would  have  blessed  him  with  her 
last  breath,  if  she  had  had  her  senses,  as  her  beloved 
son  George. 

Mother,  I  have  been  an  undutiful  trouble  to  you,  and 
I  have  my  reward  ;  but  of  late  years  I  have  had  a  kind 
of  glimmering  of  a  purpose  in  me,  too.  When  I  left 
home  I  didn't  care  much,  mother—  I  am  afraid  not  a 
great  deal — for  leaving  ;  and  went  away  and  'listed, 
harum-scarum,  making  believe  to  tjiink  that  I  cared  for 
nobody,  no  not  I,  and  that  nobody  cared  for  me.'' 

The  trooper  has  dried  his  eyes,  and  put  away  his 
handkerchief  :  but  there  is  an  extraordinary  contrast  be- 
tween his  habitual  manner  of  expressing  himself  and 
carrying  himself,  and  the  softened  tone  in  which  he 
speaks,  interrupted  occasionally  by  a  half -stifled  sob. 

''So  I  wrote  a  line  home,  mother,  as  you  too  well 
know,  to  say  I  had  'listed  under  another  name,  and  I 
went  abroad.  Abroad,  at  one  time  I  thought  I  w^ould 
write  home  next  year,  when  I  might  be  better  off  ;  and 
when  that  year  was  out  I  thought  I  would  write  home 
next  year,  when  I  might  be  better  off  ;  and  w^hen  that 
year  was  out  again,  perhaps  I  didn't  think  much  about 
it.  So  on,  from  year  to  year,  through  a  service  of  ten 
years,  till  I  began  to  get  older,  and  to  ask  myself  why 
should  I  ever  write  ? " 

*'I  don't  find  any  fault,  child — but  not  to  ease  my 
mind,  George  ?  Not  a  word  to  your  loving  mother,  who 
was  growing  older,  too  ?  " 

This  almost  overturns  the  trooper  afresh  ;  but  he  sets 
himself  ap  with  a  great,  rough,  sounding  clearance  of 
his  throat. 

"Heaven  forgive  me,  mother,  but  I  thought  there 
would  be  small  consolation  then  in  hearing  anything 
fibout  me.  There  were  you,  respected  and  esteemed. 
There  was  my  brother,  as  I  read  in  chance  north-coun- 
try papers  now  and  then,  rising  to  be  prosperous  and 
famous.  There  was  I  a  dragoon,  roving,  unsettled,  not 
self-made  like  him,  but  self -unmade — all  my  earlier  ad- 
Vantages  thrown  away,  all  my  little  learning  unlearnt. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


27 


aotliing  picked  up  but  what  unfitted  me  for  most  fhin^s 
that  I  could  think  of.  What  business  had  I  to  make 
myself  known  ?  After  letting  all  that  time  go  by  me, 
what  good  could  come  of  it  ?  The  worst  was  past  with 
you,  mother.  I  knew  by  that  time  (being  a  man)  how 
you  had  mourned  for  me,  and  wept  for  me,  and  prayed 
for  me  ;  and  the  pain  was  over,  or  was  softened  down, 
and  I  was  better  in  your  mind  as  it  was." 

The  old  lady  sorrowfully  shakes  her  head  ;  and  tak- 
ing one  of  his  powerful  hands,  lays  it  lovingly  upon  her 
shoulder. 

No,  I  don't  say  that  it  was  so,  mother,  but  that  I 
made  it  out  to  be  so.  I  said  just  now  what  good  could 
come  of  it?  Well,  my  dear  mother,  some  good  might 
have  oome  of  it  to  myself — and  there  was  the  meanness 
of  it.  You  would  have  sought  me  out  ;  you  would  have 
purchased  my  discharge  ;  you  would  have  taken  me 
down  to  Chesney  Wold  ;  you  would  have  brought  me 
and  my  brother  and  my  brother's  family  together  ;  you 
would  all  have  considered  anxiously  how  to  do  some- 
thing for  me,  and  set  me  up  as  a  respectable  civilian. 
But  how  could  any  of  you  feel  sure  of  me,  when  I 
couldn't  so  much  as  feel  sure  of  myself?  How  could 
you  help  regarding  as  an  incumbrance  and  a  discredit  to 
you,  an  idle  dragooning  chap,  who  was  an  incumbrance 
and  a  discredit  to  himself,  excepting  under  discipline  ? 
How  could  I  look  my  brother's  children  in  the  face,  and 
pretend  to  set  them  an  example — I,  the  vagabond  boy, 
who  had  run  away  from  home,  and  been  the  grief  and 
unhappiness  of  my  mother's  life?  *  No,  George.'  Such 
were  my  words,  mother,  when  I  passed  this  in  review 
before  me  :  '  You  have  made  your  bed.  Now,  lie  upon 
it.'  " 

Mrs.  Rouncewell,  drawing  up  her  stately  form,  shakes 
her  head  at  the  old  girl  with  a  swelling  pride  upon  her, 
as  much  as  to  say,  I  told  you  so  !"  The  old  girl  re- 
lieves her  feelings,  and  testifies  her  interest  in  the  con- 
versation, by  giving  the  trooper  a  great  poke  between 
the  shoulders  with  her  umbrella  ;  this  action  she  after- 
wards repeats,  at  intervals,  in  a  species  of  affectionate 
lunacy  :  never  failing,  after  the  administration  of  each 
of  these  remonstrances,  to  resort  to  the  whitened  wall 
and  the  grey  cloak  again. 

"  This  was  the  way  I  brought  myself  to  think,  mother, 
that  my  best  amends  was  to  lie  upon  that  bed  I  had 
made,  and  die  upon  it.  And  I  should  have  done  it 
(though  I  have  been  to  see  you  more  than  once  down  at 
Chesney  Wold,  when  you  little  thought  of  me),  but  for 
my  old  comrade's  wife  here,  who  I  find  has  been  too  many 
for  meo  But  I  thank  her  for  it.  I  thank  you  for  it,  Mrs. 
Bagnet,  with  all  my  heart  and  might." 


28 


WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


To  which  Mrs.  Bagnet  responds  with  two  pokes.  ' 

And  now  the  old  lady  impresses  upon  her  son  GeorgBv 
her  own  dear  recovered  boy,  her  joy  and  pride,  the  light 
o^  her  eyes,  the  happy  close  of  her  life,  and  every  fond 
name  she  can  think  of,  that  he  must  be  governed  by  the 
best  advice  obtainable  by  money  and  influence ;  that  he 
must  yield  up  his  case  to  the  greatest  lawyers  that  can 
be  got ;  that  he  must  act,  in  this  serious  plight,  as  he 
shall  be  advised  to  act  ;  and  must  not  be  self-willed, 
however  right,  but  must  promise  to  think  only  of  his 
poor  old  mother's  anxiety  and  suffering  until  he  is  re- 
leased, or  he  will  break  her  heart. 

Mother,  'tis  little  enough  to  consent  to,"*  returns  the 
trooper,  stopping  her  with  a  kiss  ;  tell  me  what  I  shall 
do,  and  I'll  make  a  late  beginning,  and  do  it.  Mrs.  Bag* 
net,  you'll  take  care  of  my  mother,  I  know  ?  " 

A  very  hard  poke  from  the  old  girl's  umbrellao 

"If  you'll  bring  her  acquainted  with  Mr.  Jarndjo© 
and  Miss  Summerson,  she  will  find  them  of  her  way  of 
thinking,  and  they  will  give  her  the  best  advice  and  as- 
sistance." 

"  And,  George,"  says  the  old  lady,  we  m.ust  send 
with  all  haste  for  your  brother.  He  is  a  sensible  sound 
man  as  they  tell  me — out  in  the  world  beyond  Chesney 
Wold,  my  dear,  though  I  don't  know  much  of  it  myself — 
and  will  be  of  great  service." 

**  Mother,"  returns  the  trooper,  "  is  it  too  soon  to  ask  a 
favour  ? " 

Surely  not,  my  dear." 

Then  grant  me  this  one  great  favour.  Don't  let  my 
brother  know." 

"  Not  know  what,  my  dear  ?  " 

*'  Not  know  of  me.  In  fact,  mother,  I  can't  bear  it  ;  I 
can't  make  up  my  mind  to  it.  He  has  proved  himself 
so  different  from  me,  and  has  done  so  much  to  raise 
himself  while  I  have  been  soldiering,  that  I  haven't 
brass  enough  in  my  composition,  to  see  him  in  this  place 
and  under  this  charge.  How  could  a  man  like  him  be 
expected  to  have  any  pleasure  in  such  a  discovery  ?  It's 
impossible.  No,  keep  my  secret  from  him,  mother ;  do 
me  a  greater  kindness  than  I  deserve,  and  keep  my  se- 
cret from  my  brother,  of  all  men." 

*'But  not  always,  dear  George?  " 
Why,  mother,  perhaps  not  for  good  and  all — though 
I  may  come  to  ask  that  too — but  keep  it  now,  I  do  entreat 
you.  If  it's  ever  broke  to  him  that  his  Rip  of  a  brother 
has  turned  up,  I  could  wish,"  says  the  trooper,  shaking 
his  head  very  doubtfully,  "  to  break  it  myself  ;  and  be 
governed,  as  to  advancing  or  retreating,  by  the  way  in 
which  he  seems  to  take  it." 

As  he  evidently  has  a  rooted  feeling  on  this  point,  and 


BLKAK  HOUSE. 


29 


as  the  depth  of  it  is  recognised  in  Mrs.  Bagnet's  face, 
his  mothers  yields  her  implicit  assent  to  what  he  asks. 
For  this  he  thanks  her  kindly. 

* '  In  all  other  respects,  my  dear  mother,  111  he  as  tract- 
able and  obedient  as  you  can  wish  ;  on  this  one  alone,  I 
stand  out.  So  now  I  am  ready  even  for  the  lawyers.  I 
have  been  drawing  up,"  he  glances  at  his  writing  on  the 
table,  an  exact  account  of  what  I  knew  of  the  deceased, 
and  how  I  came  to  be  involved  in  this  unfortunate  affair. 
It's  entered,  plain  and  regular,  like  an  orderly-book  ; 
not  a  word  in  it  but  what's  wanted  for  the  facts.  I  did 
intend  to  read  it,  straight  on  end,  whensoever  I  was 
called  upon  to  say  anything  in  my  defence.  I  hope  I 
may  be  let  to  do  it  still  ;  but  I  have  no  longer  a  will  of 
my  own  in  this  case,  and  whatever  is  said  or  done,  I 
give  my  promise  not  to  have  any." 

Matters  being  brought  to  this  so  far  satisfactory  pass, 
and  time  being  on  the  wane,  Mrs.  Bagnet  proposes  a  de- 
parture. Again  and  again  the  old  lady  hangs  upon  her 
son's  neck,  and  again  and  again  the  trooper  holds  her  to 
his  broad  chest. 

Where  are  you  going  to  take  my  mother,  Mrs.  Bag- 
net?" 

I  am  going  to  the  town  house,  my  dear,  the  family 
house.  I  have  some  business  there,  that  must  be  looked 
to  directly,"  Mrs.  Bounce  well  answers. 

**  Will  you  see  my  mother  safe  there,  in  a  coach,  Mrs. 
Bagnet  ?  But  of  course  I  know  you  will.  Why  should 
I  ask  it ! " 

Why  indeed,  Mrs.  Bagnet  expresses  with  the  umbrella. 

**Take  her,  my  old  friend,  and  take  my  gratitude 
fclong  with  you.  Kisses  to  Quebec  and  Malta,  love  to  my 
godson,  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand  to  Lignum,  and  this 
for  yourself,  and  I  wish  it  was  ten  thousand  pound  in 
gold,  my  dear  !"  So  saying,  the  trooper  puts  his  lips  to 
the  old  girl's  tanned  forehead,  and  the  door  shuts  upon 
him  in  his  cell. 

No  entreaties  on  the  part  of  the  good  old  housekeeper 
will  induce  Mrs.  Bagnet  to  retain  the  coach  for  her  own 
•conveyance  home.  Jumping  out  cheerfully  at  the  door 
of  the  Dedlock  mansion,  and  handing  Mrs.  Rouncewell 
up  the  steps,  the  old  girl  shakes  hands  and  trudges  off  ; 
arriving  soon  afterwards  in  the  bosom  of  the  Bagnet 
family,  and  falling  to  washing  the  greens  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

My  Lady  is  in  that  room  in  which  she  held  her  last 
conference  with  the  murdered  man,  and  is  sitting  where 
she  sat  that  night,  and  is  looking  at  the  spot  where  he 
stood  upon  the  hearth,  studying  her  so  leisurely,  when 
a  tap  comes  at  the  door.  Who  is  it  ?  Mrs.  RouncewelL 
What  has  brought  Mrs.  Rouncewell  to  town  so  unex. 
pectedly  ? 


30 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"  Trouble,  my  Lady.  Sad  trouble.  O,  my  Lady,  may 
I  beg  a  word  with  you  ?  " 

What  new  occurrence  is  it  that  makes  this  tranquil 
old  woman  tremble  so  ?  Far  happier  than  her  Lady,  as 
her  Lady  has  often  thought,  why  does  she  falter  in  this 
manner,  and  look  at  her  with  such  strange  mistrust  ! 

**  What  is  the  matter?  Sit  down  and  take  your 
breath." 

"  O,  my  Lady,  my  Lady.  I  have  found  my  son — my 
youngest,  who  went  away  for  a  soldier  so  long  ago.  And 
he  is  in  prison." 

''For  debt?" 

"0  no,  my  Lady  ;  I  would  have  paid  any  debt,  and 
joyful." 

For  what  is  he  in  prison  then  ?'* 
Charged  with  a  murder,  my  Lady,  of  which  he  is 
as  innocent  as — as  I  am.    Accused  of  the  murder  of  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn." 

What  does  she  mean  by  this  look  and  this  imploring 
gesture  ?  Why  does  she  come  so  close  ?  What  is  the 
letter  that  she  holds  ? 

"Lady  Dedlock,  my  dear  Lady,  my  good  Lady,  my 
kind  Lady  I  You  must  have  a  heart  to  feel  for  me,  you 
must  have  a  heart  to  forgive  me.  I  was  in  this  family 
before  you  were  born.  I  am  devoted  to  it.  But  think 
of  my  dear  son  wrongfully  accused." 

*'/  do  not  accuse  him." 
No,  my  Lady,  no.    But  others  do,  and  he  is  in  prison 
and  in  danger.    O  Lady  Dedlock*,  if  you  can  say  but  a 
word  to  help  to  clear  him,  say  it  ! " 

What  delusion  can  this  be  ?  What  power  does  she 
suppose  is  in  the  person  she  petitions,  to  avert  this  un- 
just suspicion,  if  it  be  unjust?  Her  Lady's  handsome 
eyes  regard  her  with  astonishment,  almost  with  fear. 

"  My  Lady,  I  came  away  last  night  from  Chesney 
Wold  to  find  my  son  in  my  old  age,  and  the  step  upon 
the  Ghost's  Walk  was  so  constant  and  so  solemn  that  I 
never  heard  the  like  in  all  these  years.  Night  after 
night,  as  it  has  fallen  dark,  the  sound  has  echoed 
through  your  rooms,  but  last  night  it  was  awfullest. 
And  as  it  fell  dark  last  night,  my  Lady,  I  got  this  letter.'* 

**What  letter  is  it?" 

'*  Hush  !  Hush  ! "  The  housekeeper  looks  round, 
and  answers  in  a  frightened  whisper :  My  Lady,  I 
have  not  breathed  a  word  of  it,  I  don't  believe  what's 
written  in  it,  I  know  it  can't  be  true,  I  am  sure  and  cer- 
tain that  it  is  not  true.  But  my  son  is  in  danger,  and 
you  must  have  a  heart  to  pity  me.  If  you  know  of  any- 
thing that  is  not  known  to  others,  if  you  have  any  sus- 
picion, if  you  have  any  clue  at  all,  and  any  reason  for 
keeping  it  in  your  own  breast,  O  my  dear  Lady,  think  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


31 


me,  and  conquer  that  reason,  and  let  it  be  known  !  This 
is  the  most  I  consider  possible.  I  know  you  art?  not  a 
hard  lady,  but  you  go  your  own  way  always,  \s^ithout 
help,  and  you  are  not  familiar  with  your  friends  ;  and 
all  who  admire  you — and  all  do — as  a  beautiful  and  ele- 
gant lady,  know  you  to  be  one  far  away  from  themselves, 
who  can't  be  approached  close.  My  Lady,  you  may 
have  some  proud  or  angry  reasons  for  disdaining  to  utter 
something  that  you  know  ;  if  so,  pray,  O  pray,  think  oi 
a  faithful  servant  whose  whole  life  has  been  passed  in 
this  family  which  she- dearly  loves,  and  relent,  and  help 
to  clear  my  son  !  My  Lady,  my  good  Lady,''  the  old 
housekeeper  pleads  with  genuine  simplicity,  ''I  am  so 
humble  in  my  place,  and  you  are  by  nature  so  high  and 
distant,  that  you  may  not  think  what  I  feel  for  my  child  ; 
but  I  feel  so  much,  that  I  have  come  here  to  make  so  bold 
as  to  beg  and  pray  you  not  to  be  scornful  of  us,  if  you 
can  do  us  any  right  or  justice  at  this  fearful  time  1 " 

Lady  Dedlock  raises  her  without  one  word,  until  she 
takes  the  letter  from  her  hand. 
Am  I  to  read  this  ?  " 

"  When  1  am  gone,  my  Lady,  if  you  please  ;  and  then 
remembering  the  most  that  I  consider  possible." 

'  *  I  know  of  nothing  I  can  do.  I  know  of  nothing  I 
reserve,  that  can  affect  your  son.  I  have  never  accused 
him." 

My  Lady,  you  may  pity  him  the  more,  under  a  false 
accusation,  after  reading  the  letter." 

The  old  housekeeper  leaves  her  with  the  letter  in  hex 
hand.  In  truth  she  is  not  a  hard  lady  naturally  ;  and 
the  time  has  been  when  the  sight  of  the  venerable  fig- 
ure sueing  to  her  with  such  strong  earnestness  would 
have  moved  her  to  great  compassion.  But,  so  long  ac- 
customed to  siippress  emotion,  and  keep  down  reality  ; 
so  long  schooled  for  her  own  purposes,  in  that  destruc- 
tive school  which  shuts  up  the  natural  feelings  of  the 
heart,  like  flies  in  amber,  and  spreads  one  uniform  and 
dreary  gloss  over  the  good  and  bad,  the  feeling  and  the 
unfeeling,  the  sensible  and  the  senseless  ;  she  had  sub- 
dued even  her  wonder  until  now. 

She  opens  the  letter.  Spread  out  upon  the  paper  is  a 
printed  account  of  the  discovery  of  the  body,  as  it  lay 
race  downward  on  the  floor,  shot  through  the  heart ;  and 
underneath  is  written  her  own  name,  with  the  word 
Murderess  attached. 

It  falls  out  of  her  hand.  How  long  it  may  have  lain 
upon  the  ground,  she  knows  not  •  but  it  lies  where  it 
fell,  when  a  servant  stands  before  her  announcing  a 
young  man  of  the  name  of  Guppy.  The  words  have 
probabi^y  been  repeated  several  times,  for  they  are 


32 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ringing  in  her  liead  before  slie  begins  to  understand 
them. 

Let  him  come  in  ! " 
He  comes  in.  Holding  the  letter  in  her  hand,  which 
she  has  taken  from  the  floor,  she  tries  to  collect  her 
thoughts.  In  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Guppy  she  is  the  same 
Lady  Dedlock,  holding  the  same  prepared,  proud,  chill- 
ing state. 

Your  Ladyship  may  not  be  at  first  disposed  to  excuse 
this  visit  from  one  who  has  never  been  very  welcome  to 
your  Ladyship — which  he  don't  complain  of,  for  he  is 
bound  to  confess  that  there  never  has  been  any  particu- 
lar reason  on  the  face  of  things,  why  he  should  be  ;  but 
I  hope  when  I  mention  my  motives  to  your  Ladyship, 
you  will  not  find  fault  with  me,"  says  Mr.  Guppy. 
'*Do  so." 

Thank  your  Ladyship.  I  ought  first  to  explain  to  your 
Ladyship,"  Mr.  Guppy  sits  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  and 
puts  his  hat  on  the  carpet  at  his  feet,  that  Miss  Sum- 
merson,  whose  image  as  I  formerly  mentioned  to  your 
Ladyship  was  at  one  period  of  my  life  imprinted  on  my 
art  until  erased  by  circumstances  over  which  I  had  no 
control,  communicated  to  me,  after  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  waiting  on  your  Ladyship  last,  that  she  particularly 
wished  me  to  take  no  steps  whatever  in  any  matter  at 
all  relating  to  her.  And  Miss  Summerson's  wishes  being 
to  me  a  law  (except  as  connected  with  circumstances 
over  which  I  have  no  control),  I  consequently  never  ex- 
pected to  have  the  distinguished  honour  of  waiting  on 
your  Ladyship  again." 

And  yet  he  is  here  now.  Lady  Dedlock  moodily  reminds 
him. 

"And  yet  I  am  here  now,"  Mr.  Guppy  admits.  "My 
object  being  to  communicate  to  your  Ladyship,  under  the 
seal  of  confidence,  why  I  am  here." 

He  cannot  do  so,  she  tells  him,  too  plainly  or  too 
briefly. 

*'Nor  can  I,''  Mr.  Guppy  returns,  with  a  sense  of  in- 
jury upon  him,  "too  particularly  request  your  Ladyship 
to  take  particular  notice  that  it's  no  personal  affair  of 
mine  that  brings  me  here.  I  have  no  interested  views 
of  my  own  to  serve  in  coming  here.  If  it  was  not  for 
my  promise  to  Miss  Summerson,  and  my  keeping  of  it 
sacred, — I,  in  point  of  fact,  shouldn't  have  darkened 
these  doors  again,  but  should  have  seen  'em  further 
first." 

Mr.  Guppy  considers  this  a  favourable  moment  for 
sticking  up  his  hair  with  both  hands. 

"Your  Ladyship  will  remember  when  I  mention  it, 
that  the  last  time  I  was  here,  I  run  against  a  party  very 
eminent  in  our  profession,  and  whose  loss  we  all  deplore. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


33 


That  party  certainly  did  from  that  time  apply  himself  to 
cutting  in  against  me  in  a  way  that  I  will  call  sharp 
practice,  and  did  make  it,  at  every  turn  and  point,  ex- 
tremely difficult  forme  to  be  sure  that  I  hadnH  inadvert- 
ently led  up  to  something  contrary  to  Miss  Summerson's 
wishes.  Self-praise  is  no  recommendation  ;  but  I  may 
say  for  myself  that  I  am  not  so  bad  a  man  of  business 
neither." 

Lady  Dedlock  looks  at  him  in  stern  inquiry.  Mr. 
Guppy  immediately  withdraws  his  eyes  from  her  facev 
and  looks  anywhere  else. 

Indeed,  it  has  been  made  so  hard,"  he  goes  on,  *-  to 
have  any  idea  what  that  party  was  up  to  in  combination 
with  others,  that  until  the  loss  which  we  all  deplore,  I 
was  gravelled — an  expression  which  your  Ladyship,  moy^ 
ing  in  the  higher  circles,  will  be  so  good  as  to  considel 
tantamount  to  knocked  over.  Small  likewise — a  namH 
by  which  I  refer  to  another  party,  a  friend  of  mine  thai 
your  Ladyship  is  not  acquainted  with — got  to  be  so  close 
«^  and  double-faced  that  at  times  it  wasn't  easy  to  keep 
one's  hands  off  his  ed.  However,  what  with  the  exertion 
of  my  humble  abilities,  and  what  with  the  help  of  a 
mutual  friend  by  the  name  of  Mr.  Tony  Weevle  (who  is 
of  a  high  aristocratic  turn,  and  has  your  Ladyship's  por- 
trait always  hanging  up  in  his  room),  I  have  now  reasons 
for  an  apprehension,  as  to  which  I  come  to  put  your 
Ladyship  upon  your  guard.  First,  will  your  Ladyship 
allow  me  to  ask  you  whether  you  have  had  any  strange 
visitors  this  morning?  I  don't  mean  fashionable  visitors, 
but  such  visitors,  for  instance,  as  Miss  Barbary's  old  ser- 
vant, or  as  a  person  without  the  use  of  his  lower  extrem* 
ities,  carried  up-stairs  similarly  to  a  Guy  ?  *' 

*'No  !" 

"  Then  I  assure  your  Ladyship  that  such  visitors  have 
been  here  and  have  been  received  here.  Because  I  saw 
them  at  the  door,  and  waited  at  the  corner  of  the  square 
till  they  came  out,  and  took  half-an-hour's  turn  after- 
wards to  avoid  them." 

What  have  1  to  do  with  that,  or  what  have  you  ?  I 
do  not  understand  you.    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Your  Ladyship,  I  come  to  put  you  on  your  guard. 
There  may  be  no  occasion  for  it.  Very  well.  Then  I 
have  only  done  my  best  to  keep  my  promise  to  Miss 
Summerson.  I  strongly  suspect  (from  what  Small  has 
dropped,  and  from  what  we  have  corkscrewed  out  of  him) 
that  those  letters  I  was  to  have  brought  to  your  Ladyship 
were  not  destroyed  when  I  supposed  they  were.  That 
if  there  was  anything  to  be  blown  upon,  it  is  blown 
upon.  That  the  visitors  I  have  alluded  to  have  been 
here  this  morning  to  make  money  of  it.  And  that  the 
money  is  made,  or  makinc:.  '* 

BB  Vol.  18 


34 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mr.  Guppy  picks  up  his  liat  and  rises. 
Your  Ladyship,  you  know  best,  whether  there's  any- 
thing in  what  I  say,  or  whether  there's  nothing.  Some- 
thing or  nothing,  I  have  acted  up  to  Miss  Summerson's 
wishes  in  letting  things  alone,  and  in  undoing  what  I 
had  begun  to  do,  as  far  as  possible  ;  that's  sufficient  for 
me.  In  case  I  "should  be  taking  a  liberty  in  putting  your 
Ladyship  on  your  guard  when  there's  no  necessity  for 
it,  you  will  endeavour,  I  should  hope,  to  outlive  my 
presumption,  and  I  shall  endeavour  to  outlive  your  dis- 
approbation. I  now  take  my  farewell  of  your  Ladyship, 
and  assure  you  that  there's  no  danger  of  your  ever  being 
waited  on  by  me  again." 

She  scarcely  acknowledges  these  parting  words  by  any 
look  ;  but  when  he  has  been  gone  a  little  while  she  rings 
her  bell. 

"  Where  is  Sir  Leicester?" 

Mercury  reports  that  he  is  at  present  shut  up  in  the 
library,  alone. 

Has  Sir  Leicester  had  any  visitors  this  morning  ?  " 

Several  on  business.  Mercury  proceeds  to  a  description 
of  them,  which  has  been  anticipated  by  Mr.  Guppy. 
Enough  :  he  may  go. 

So  !  All  is  broken  down.  Her  name  is  in  these  many 
mouths,  her  husband  knows  his  wrongs,  her  shame  will 
be  published — ^may  be  spreading  while  she  -thinks  about 
it — and  in  addition  to  the  thunderbolt  so  long  foreseen 
by  her,  so  unforeseen  by  him,  she  is  denounced  by  an 
invisible  accuser  as  the  murderess  of  her  enemy. 

Her  enemy  he  was,  and  she  has  often,  often,  often, 
wished  him  dead.  Her  enemy  he  is,  even  in  his  grave. 
This  dreadful  accusation  comes  upon  her,  like  a  new 
torment  at  his  lifeless  hand.  And  when  she  recalls  how 
she  was  secretly  at  his  door  that  night,  and  how  she 
may  be  represented  to  have  sent  her  favourite  girl  away, 
so  soon  before,  merely  to  release  herself  from  observa- 
tion,  she  shudders  as  if  the  hangman's  hands  were  at 
her  neck. 

She  has  thrown  herself  upon  the  floor,  and  lies  with 
her  hair  all  wildly  scattered,  and  her  face  buried  in  the 
ijushions  of  a  couch.  She  rises  up,  hurries  to  and  iro, 
flings  herself  down  again,  and  rocks  and  moans.  The 
horror  that  is  upon  her,  is  unutterable.  If  she  really 
were  the  murderess,  it  could  hardly  be,  for  the  moment, 
more  intense. 

For,  as  her  murderous  perspective,  before  the  doing  of 
the  deed,  however  subtle  the  precautions  for  its  com- 
mission, would  have  been  closed  up  by  a  gigantic  dilata- 
tion of  the  hateful  figure,  preventing  her  from  seeing 
any  consequences  beyond  it ;  and  as  those  consequences 
would  have  rushed  in,  in  an  unimagined  flood,  the  mo 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


85 


ment  the  figure  was  laid  low — which  always  happens 
when  a  murder  is  done  ;  so,  now  she  sees  that  when  he 
used  to  be  on  the  watch  before  her,  and  she  used  to 
think,  if  some  mortal  stroke  would  but  fall  on  this  ©Id 
man  and  take  him  from  my  way  I "  it  was  but  wishing 
that  all  he  held  against  her  in  his  hand  might  be  flung 
to  the  winds,  and  chance-sown  in  many  places.  So,  too, 
with  the  wicked  relief  she  has  felt  in  his  death.  What 
was  his  death  but  the  key-stone  of  a  gloomy  arch  re- 
moved, and  now  the  arch  begins  to  fall  in  a  thousand 
fragments,  each  crushing  and  mangling  piecemeal  ! 

Thus,  a  terrible  impression  steals  upon  and  over- 
shadows her,  that  from  this  pursuer,  living  or  dead — 
obdurate  and  imperturbable  before  her  in  his  well-re- 
membered shape,  or  not  more  obdurate  and  imperturba- 
ble in  his  coffin-bed, — there  is  no  escape  but  in  death. 
Hunted,  she  flies.  The  complication  of  her  shame,  her 
dread,  remorse,  and  misery,  overwhelms  her  at  its 
height ;  and  even  her  strength  of  self-reliance  is  over- 
turned and  whirled  away,  like  a  leaf  before  a  mighty 
wind. 

She  hurriedly  addresses  these  lines  to  her  husband, 
seals,  and  leaves  them  on  her  table. 

*'  If  I  am  sought  for,  or  accused  of,  his  murder,  believe  that  I  am 
wholly  innocent.  Believe  no  other  good  of  me  ;  for  I  am  innocent  of 
nothing  else  that  you  have  heard,  or  will  hear,  laid  to  my  charge.  He 
prepared  me,  on  that  fatal  night,  for  his  disclosure  of  my  guilt  to  you. 
After  he  had  left  me,  I  went  out,  on  pretence  of  walking  in  the  garden 
where  I  sometimes  walk,  but  really  to  follow  him,  and  make  one  last 

Eetition  that  he  would  not  protract  the  dreadful  suspense  on  which  I 
ave  been  racked  by  him,  you  do  not  know  how  long,  but  would  mer- 
cifully strike  next  morning. 

"  I  found  his  house  dark  and  silent,  i  rang  twice  at  his  door,  but 
there  was  no  reply,  and  I  came  home. 

"I  have  no  home  left.  I  will  encumber  you  no  more.  May  you, 
in  your  just  resentment,  be  able  to  forget  the  unworthy  woman  on 
whom  you  have  wasted  a  most  i/enerous  devotion — who  avoids  you, 
only  with  a  deeper  shame  than  that  with  which  she  hurries  from  her- 
self—and who  writes  this  last  adieu  ! " 

She  veils  and  dresses  quickly,  leaves  all  her  jewels 
and  her  money,  listens,  goes  down-stairs  at  a  moment 
when  the  hall  is  empty,  opens  and  shuts  the  great  door  ; 
flutters  away,  in  the  shrill,  frosty  wind. 


CHAPTER  LVL 

Pursuit. 

Impassive,  as  behoves  its  high  breeding,  the  Dedlock 
town-house  stares  at  the  other  houses  in  the  street  of  dis- 
vial  grandeur,  and  gives  no  outward  sign  of  anything 


36  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


going  wrong  within.  Carriages  rattle/doors  are  battered 
at,  the  world  exchanges  calls  ;  ancient  charmers  with 
skeleton  throats,  and  peachy  cheeks  that  have  a  rathei 
ghastly  bloom  upon  them  seen  by  daylight,  when  indeed 
these  fascinating  creatui'es  look  like  Death  and  the  Lady 
fused  together,  dazzle  the  eyes  of  men.  Forth  from  the 
frigid  Mews  come  easily  swinging  carriages  guided  by 
short-legged  coachmen  in  flaxen  wigs,  deep  sunk  into 
downy  hammercloths  ;  and  up  behind  mount  luscious 
Mercuries,  bearing  sticks  of  state,  and  wearing  cocked 
hats  broadwise  :  a  spectacle  for  the  Angels. 

The  Dedlock  town -house  changes  not  externally,  and 
hours  pass  before  its  exalted  dulness  is  disturbed  within. 
But  Volumnia  the  fair,  being  subject  to  the  prevalent 
complaint  of  boredom,  and  finding  that  disorder  attack- 
ing her  spirits  with  some  virulence,  ventures  at  length 
to  repair  to  the  library  for  change  of  scene.  Her  gentle 
tapping  at  the  door  producing  no  response,  she  opens  it 
and  peeps  in  ;  seeing  no  one  there,  takes  possession. 

The  sprightly  Dedlock  is  reputed,  in  that  grass-grown 
city  of  the  ancients,  Bath,  to  be  stimulated  by  an  urgent 
curiosity,  which  impels  her  on  all  convenient  and  incon- 
venient occasions  to  sidle  about  with  a  golden  glass  at 
her  eye,  peering  into  objects  of  every  description.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  she  avails  herself  of  the  present  opportu- 
nity of  hovering  over  her  kinsman's  letters  and  papers, 
like  a  bird  ;  taking  a  short  peck  at  this  document,  and  a 
blink  with  her  head  on  one  side  at  that  document,  and 
hopping  about  from  table  to  table,  with  her  glass  at  her 
eye  in  an  inquisitive  and  restless  manner.  In  the  course 
of  these  researches  she  stumbles  over  something ;  and 
turning  her  glass  in  that  direction,  sees  her  kinsman  ly- 
ing  on  the  ground  like  a  felled  tree. 

Volumnia's  pet  little  scream  acquires  a  considerable 
augmentation  of  reality  from  this  surprise,  and  the  house 
is  quickly  in  commotion.  Servants  tear  up  and  down 
stairs,  bells  are  violently  rung,  doctors  are  sent  for,  and 
Lady  Dedlock  is  sought  in  all  directions,  but  not  found. 
Nobody  has  seen  or  heard  her  since  she  last  rang  her 
bell.  Her  letter  to  Sir  Leicester  is  discovered  on  her 
table ; — but  it  is  doubtful  yet  whether  he  has  not  re- 
ceived another  missive  from  another  world,  requiring  to 
be  personally  answered  ;  and  all  the  living  languages, 
and  all  the  dead,  are  as  one  to  him. 

They  lay  him  down  upon  his  bed,  and  chafe,  and  rub, 
and  fan,  and  put  ice  to  his  head,  and  try  every  means  of 
restoration.  Howbeit  the  day  has  ebbed  away  and  it  is 
night  in  his  room,  before  his  stertorous  breathing  lulls, 
or  his  fixed  eyes  show  any  consciousness  of  the  candle 
that  is  occasional/ passed  before  them.  But  when  this 
change  begins  it  goes  on  •  and  by  and  by  he  nods,  or 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


37 


moves  liis  eyes,  or  even  his  hand,  in  token  that  he  hears 
and  comprehends. 

He  fell  down,  this  morning,  a  handsome  stately  gentle 
man  ;  somewhat  infirm,  but  of  a  fine  presence,  and  with 
a  well-filled  face.  He  lies  upon  his  bed,  an  aged  man 
with  sunken  cheeks,  the  decrepit  shadow  of  himself. 
His  voice  was  rich  and  mellow  ;  and  he  had  so  long  been 
thoroughly  persuaded  of  the  weight  and  import  to  man^ 
kind  of  any  word  he  said,  that  his  words  really  had  come 
to  sound  as  if  there  were  something  in  them.  But  now 
he  can  only  whisper  ;  and  what  he  whispers  sounds  like 
what  it  is — mere  jumble  and  jargon. 

His  favourite  and  faithful  housekeeper  stands  at  his 
bedside.  It  is  the  first  fact  he  notices,  and  he  clearly 
derives  pleasure  from  it.  After  vainly  trying  to  make 
himself  understood  in  speech,  he  makes  signs  for  a  pen- 
cil.' So  inexpressively,  that  they  cannot  at  first  under- 
stand him;  it  is  his  old  housekeeper  who  makes  out  what 
he  wants,  and  brings  him  a  slate. 

After  pausing  for  some  time,  he  slowly  scrawls  upon  it, 
in  a  hand  that  is  not  his,     Chesney  Wold  ?  " 

No,  she  tells  him  ;  he  is  in  London.  He  was  taken 
ill  in  the  library,  this  morning.  Right  thankful  she  is 
that  she  happened  to  come  to  London,  and  is  able  to  at- 
tend upon  him. 

''It  is  not  an  illness  of  any  serious  consequence.  Sir 
Leicester.  You  will  be  much  better  to-morrow,  Sir 
Leicester.  All  the  gentlemen  say  so."  This,  with  the 
tears  coursing  down  her  fair  old  face. 

After  making  a  survey  of  the  room,  and  looking  with 
particular  attention  all  round  the  bed  where  the  doctors 
stand,  he  writes     My  Ladj^." 

*'My  Lady  went  out,  Sir  Leicester,  before  you  were 
taken  ill,  and  don't  know  of  your  illness  yet.'* 

He  points  again,  in  great  agitation,  at  the  two  words. 
They  all  try  to  quiet  him,  but  he  points  again  with  in- 
creased agitation.  On  their  looking  at  one  another,  not 
knowing  what  to  say,  he  takes  the  slate  once  more,  and 
writes ' '  My  Lady.  For  God's  sake,  where  ?  "  And  makes 
an  imploring  moan. 

It  is  though  better  that  his  old  housekeeper  should 
give  him  Lady  Dedlock's  letter,  the  contents  of  which 
no  one  knows  or  can  surmise.  She  opens  it  for  him,  and 
puts  it  out  for  his  perusal.  Having  read  it  twice  by  a 
great  effort,  he  turns  it  down  so  that  it  shall  not  be  seen, 
and  lies  moaning.  He  passes  into  a  kind  of  relapse, 
or  into  a  swoon  ;  and  it  is  an  hour  before  he  opens  his 
eyes,  reclining  on  his  faithful  and  attached  old  servant's 
arm.  The  doctors  know  that  he  is  best  with  her  ;  and, 
when  not  actively  engaged  about  him,  stand  aloof. 

The  slate  comes  into  requisition  again  ;  but  the  word 


38 


WORKb  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


he  wants  to  write,  he  cannot  remember.  His  anxiety, 
his  eagerness,  and  affliction,  at  this  pass,  are  pitiable  to 
behold.  It  seems  as  if  he  must  go  mad,  in  the  necessity 
he  feels  for  haste,  and  the  inability  under  which  he 
labours  of  expressing  to  do  what,  or  to  fetch  whom.  He 
has  written  the  letter  B,  and  there  stopped.  Of  a  sud- 
den, in  the  height  of  liis  misery,  he  puts  Mr.  before  it. 
The  old  housekeeper  suggests  Bucket.  Thank  Heaven  I 
That's  his  meaning. 

Mr.  Bucket  is  found  to  be  down-stairs,  by  appoint- 
ment.   Shall  he  come  up  ? 

There  is  no  possibility  of  misconstruing  Sir  Leicester's 
burning  wish  to  see  him,  or  the  desire  he  signifies  to 
have  the  room  cleared  of  every  one  but  the  housekeeper. 
It  is  speedily  done  ;  and  Mr.  Bucket  appears.  Of  all  men 
upon  earth.  Sir  Leicester  seems  fallen  from  his  high 
estate  to  place  his  sole  trust  and  reliance  upon  this  man. 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I'm  sorry  to  see  you 
like  this.  I  ho])e  you'll  cheer  up.  I'm  sure  you  will*  on 
account  of  the  family  credit." 

Sir  Leicester  puts  her  letter  in  his  hand,  and  looks  in- 
tently in  his  face  while  he  reads  it.  A  new  intelligence 
comes  into  Mr.  Bucket's  eye,  as  he  reads  on  ;  with  one 
hook  of  his  finger,  while  that  eye  is  still  glancing  over 
the  words,  he  indicates,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet, 
I  understand  you." 

Sir  Leicester  writes  upon  the  slate.  "  Full  forgive- 
ness.   Find — "    Mr.  Bucket  stops  his  hand. 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I'll  find  her.  But 
my  search  after  her  must  be  begun  out  of  hand.  Not  a 
minute  must  be  lost." 

With  the  quickness  of  thought  he  follows  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock's  look  towards  a  little  box  upon  a  table. 

*'  Bring  it  here,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet  ?  Cer- 
tainly. Open  it  with  one  of  these  here  keys  ?  Certainly. 
The  littlest  key?  To  be  sure.  Take  the  notes  out?  So 
I  ^vill.  Count  'em?  That's  soon  done.  Twenty  and 
thirty's  fifty,  and  twenty's  seventy,  and  fifty's  one  twenty, 
and  forty's  one  sixty.  Take  'em  for  expenses?  That 
I'll  do,  and  render  an  account  of  course.  Don't  spare 
money?    No,  I  won't." 

The  velocity  and  certainty  of  Mr.  Bucket's  interpreta- 
tion on  all  these  heads  is  little  short  of  miraculous.  Mrs. 
Rouncewell,  who  holds  the  light,  is  giddy  with  the  swift- 
ness of  his  eyes  and  hands,  as  he  starts  up,  furnished 
for  his  journey. 

''You're  George's  mother,  old  lady  ;  that's  about  what 
you  are,  I  believe  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket,  aside,  with  his  hat 
already  on,  and  buttoning  his  coat. 

**  Yes,  sir,  I  am  his  distressed  mother." 

•*  So  I  thoup-ht,  accordin cr  to  what  he  mentioned  to  me 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


88 


Just  now.  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  something.  You 
needn't  be  distressed  no  more.  Your  con's  all  right. 
Now  don't  you  be^in  a-crying  ;  because  what  youVe  got 
to  do  is  to  take  care  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet, 
and  you  won't  do  that  by  crying.  As  to  your  son,  he's 
all  right,  I  tell  you  ;  and  he  sends  his  loving  duty,  and 
hoping  you're  the  same.  He's  discharged  honourable  ; 
that's  about  what  lie  is  ;  with  no  more  imputation  on  his 
character  than  there  is  on  yours,  and  yours  is  a  tidy  one, 
i'll  bet  a  pound.  You  may  trust  me,  for  I  took  your  son. 
He  conducted  himself  in  a  game  way,,  too,  on  that  occa- 
sion ;  and  he's  a  fine-made  man,  and  you're  a  fine-made 
old  lady,  and  you're  a  mother  and  son,  the  .  pair  of  you, 
as  might  be  showed  for  models  in  a  caravan.  Sir  Lei- 
cester Dedlock,  Baronet,  what  you've  trusted  to  me,  I'll 
go  through  with.  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  my  turning 
out  of  my  way,  right  or  left  ;  or  taking  a  sleep,  or  a 
wash,  or  a  shave,  till  I  have  found  what  I  go  in  search 
of.  Say  everything  as  is  kind  and  forgiving  on  your 
part  ?  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  will.  xind 
I  wish  you  better,  and  these  family  affairs  smoothed 
over — as,  Lord  !  many  other  family  affairs  equally  has 
been,  and  equally  will  be,  to. the  end  of  time." 

With  this  peroration,  Mr.  Bucket,  buttoned  up,  goes 
quietly  out,  looking  steadily  before  him  as  if  he  were  al- 
ready piercing  the  night  in  quest  of  the  fugitive. 

His  first  step,  is  to  take  himself  to  Lady  Dedlock 's 
rooms,  and  look  all  over  them  for  any  trifling  indication 
that  may  help  him.  The  rooms  are  in  darkness  now  ; 
and  to  see  Mr.  Bucket  with  a  wax-light  in  his  hand, 
holding  it  above  his  head,  and  taking  a  sharp  mental  in- 
ventory of  the  mauiy  delicate  objects  so  curiously  at  vari- 
ance with  himself,  would  be  to  see  a  sight, — which  no- 
body does  see,  as  he  is  particular  to  lock  himself  in. 

spicy  boudoir  this,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  who  feels 
in  a  manner  furbished  up  in  his  French  by  the  blow  of 
the  morning.  "  Must  have  cost  a  sight  of  money.  Rum 
firticles  to  cut  away  from,  these  :  she  must  have  been 
hard  put  to  it ! " 

Opening  and  shutting  table-drawers,  and  looking  into 
caskets  and  jewel-cases,  he  sees  the  reflection  of  himself 
in  various  mirrors,  and  moralises  thereon. 

*'One  might  suppose  I  was  a  moving  in  the  fashion- 
able circles,  and  getting  myself  up  for  Almack's,"  say» 
Mr.  Bucket.  *'  I  begin  to  think  I  must  be  a  swell  in  the 
Guards,  without  knowing  it." 

Ever  looking  about,  he  has  opened  a  dainty  little  chest 
in  an  inner  drawer.  His  great  hand,  turning  over  some 
gloves  which  it  can  scarcely  feel,  they  are  so  light  and 
^ft  within  it,  comes  upon  a  white  handkerchief. 

Hum  I   Let's  have  a  look  at  you"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 


40  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


putting  down  the  light.  **  What  should  you  be  kept  by 
yourself  for?  What's  your  motive?  Are  you  her  Lady- 
ship's property,  or  somebody  else's  ?  You've  got  a  mark 
upon  you,  somewheres  or  another,  I  suppose?" 

He  finds  it  as  he  speaks,     Esther  Summcrson." 

**OhI"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  pausing  with  his  finger  at 
his  ear.    ''Come,  I'll  take  you,** 

He  completes  his  observations  as  quietly  and  carefully 
as  he  has  carried  them  on,  leaves  everything  else  pre- 
cisely as  he  found  it,  glides  away  after  some  five  minutes 
in  all,  and  passes  into  the  street.  With  a  glance  up- 
ward at  the  dimly  lighted  windows  of  SirLeicester's  room, 
he  sets  off,  full  swing,  to  the  nearest  cftich -stand,  picks 
out  the  horse  for  his  money,  and  directs  to  be  driven  to 
the  Shooting  Gallery.  Mr.  Bucket  does  not  claim  to  be 
a  scientific  judge  of  horses  ;  but  he  lays  out  a  little 
money  on  the  principal  events  in  that  line,  and  generally 
sums  up  his  knowledge  of  the  subject  in  the  remark, 
that  when  he  see  a  horse  as  can  go,  he  knows  him. 

His  knowledge  is  not  at  fault  in  the  present  instance. 
Clattering  over  the  stones  at  a  dangerous  pace,  yet 
thoughtfully  bringing  his  keen  eyes  to  bear  on  every 
slinking  creature  whom  he  passes  in  the  midnight 
streets,  and  even  on  the  lights  in  upper  windows  where 
people  are  going  or  gone  to  bed,  and  on  all  the  turnings 
that  he  rattles  by,  and  alike  on  the  heavy  sky,  and  on 
the  earth  where  the  snow  lies  thin — for  something  may 
present  itself  to  assist  him,  anywhere — ^he  dashes  to  his 
destination  at  such  a  speed,  that  when  he  stops,  the 
horse  half  smothers  him  in  a  cloud  of  steam. 

'*Unbear  him  half  a  moment  to  freshen  him  up,  and 
I'll  be  back." 

He  runs  up  the  long  wooden  entry,  and  finds  the 
trooper  smoking  his  pipe. 

'*I  thought  I  should,  George,  after  what  you  have 
gone  through,  my  lad.  I  haven't  a  word  to  spare.  Now, 
honour  !  AH  to  save  a  woman.  Miss  Summerson  that 
was  here  when  Gridley  died — that  was  the  name,  I  know 
' — all  right ! — where  does  she  live?" 

The  trooper  has  just  come  from  there  and  gives  him 
the  address  near  Oxford-street. 

*'  You  won't  repent  it,  George.    Good  night ! " 

He  is  off  again  with  an  impression  of  having  seen  Phil 
sitting  by  the  frosty  fire,  staring  at  him  open-mouthed  ; 
and  gallops  away  again,  and  gets  out  in  a  cloud  of  steam 
again. 

Mr.  Jarndyce,  the  only  person  up  in  the  house,  is  just 
going  to  bed  ;  rises  from  his  book,  on  hearing  the  rapid 
ringing  at  the  bell ;  and  comes  down  to  the  door  in  his 
dressing-gown. 

''Don't  be  alarmed,  sir."    In  a  moment  his  visitor  is 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


41 


confidential  with  him  in  the  hall,  has  shut  the  door,  and 
stands  with  his  hand  upon  the  lock.  "I've  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  before.  Inspector  Bucket.  Look 
at  that  handkerchief,  sir ;  Miss  Esther  Summerson's. 
Found  it  myself  put  away  in  a  drawer  of  Lady  Dedlock's, 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  Not  a  moment  to  lose.  Matter 
of  life  or  death.  You  know  Lady  Dedlock  ?  " 
Yes." 

"  There  has  been  a  discovery  there,  to-day.  Family 
affairs  have  come  out.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet, 
has  had  a  fit — apoplexy  or  paralysis — and  couldn't  be 
brought  to,  and  precious  time  has  been  lost.  Lady 
Dedlock  disappeared  this  afternoon,  and  left  a  letter 
for  him  that  looks  bad.  Run  your  eye  over  it.  Here  it 
is!" 

Mr.  Jarndyce  having  read  it,  asks  him  what  he 
thinks  ? 

'*  I  don't  know.  It  looks  like  suicide.  Anyways 
there's  more  and  more  danger,  every  minute,  of  its 
drawing  to  that.  I'd  give  a  hundred  pound  an  hour  to 
have  got  the  start  of  the  present  time.  Now,  Mr.  Jarn- 
dyce, I  am  employed  by  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet, 
to  follow  her  and  find  her — to  save  her,  and  take  her  his 
forgiveness.  I  have  money  and  full  power,  but  I  want 
something  else.    I  want  Miss  Summerson." 

Mr.  Jarndyce  in  a  troubled  voice,  repeats  Miss  Sum-  , 
merson  ?  " 

**  Now,  Mr.  Jarndyce  ;"  Mr.  Bucket  has  read  his  face 
with  the  greatest  attention  all  along  ;  I  speak  to  you 
as  a  gentleman  of  a  humane  heart,  and  under  such 
pressing  circumstances  as  don't  often  happen.  If  ever 
delay  was  dangerous,  it's  dangerous  now  ;  and  if  ever 
you  couldn't  afterwards  forgive  yourself  for  causing  it, 
this  is  the  time.  Eight  or  ten  hours,  worth ,  as  I  tell 
you,  a  hundred  pound  a-piece  at  least,  have  been  lost 
since  Lady  Dedlock  disappeared.  I  am  charged  to  find 
her.  I  am  Inspector  Bucket.  Besides  all  the  rest  that's 
heavy  on  her,  she  has  upon  her,  as  she  believes,  sus- 
picion of  murder.  If  I  follow  her  alone,  she,  being  in 
ignorance  of  what  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  has 
communicated  to  me,  may  be  driven  to  desperation.  But 
if  I  follow  her  in  company  with  a  young  lady,  answering 
to  the  description  of  a  young  lady  that  she  has  a  tender- 
ness for — I  ask  no  question,  and  I  say  no  more  than  that — 
she  will  give  me  credit  for  being  friendly.  Let  me  come  up 
with  her,  and  he  able  to  have  the  hold  upon  her  of  put- 
ting that  vouncr  lady  for'ard,  and  I'll  save  her  and  pre- 
vail with  her  if  she  is  alive.  Let  me  come  up  with  her 
alone — a  harder  matter — and  I'll  do  my  best ;  but  I  don't 
answer  for  what  the  best  may  be.  Time  flies  ;  it's  get- 
ting on  for  one  o'clock.    When  one  strikes,  there's  an- 


42 


WOKKS  OP^  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


other  hour  gone  ;  and  it's  worth  a  thousand  pound  now, 
instead  of  a  hundred. " 

This  is  all  true,  and  the  pressing  nature  of  the  case 
cannot  he  questioned.  Mr.  Jarndyce  begs  him  to  remain 
there,  while  iie  speaks  to  Miss  Summerson.  Mr.  Bucket 
says  he  will  ;  but  acting  on  his  usual  principle,  does  no 
such  thing — following  up-stairs  instead,  and  keeping  his 
man  in  sight.  So  he  remains,  dodging  and  lurking 
about  in  the  gloom  of  the  staircase,  while  they  confer. 
In  a  very  little  time,  Mr.  Jarndyce  comes  down,  and  tells 
him  that  Miss  Summerson  will  join  him  directly,  and 
place  herself  under  his  protection,  to  accompany  him 
where  he  pleases.  Mr.  Bucket,  satisfied,  expresses  high 
approval ;  and  awaits  her  coming  at  the  door. 

There,  he  mounts  a  high  tower  in  his  mind,  and  looks 
out,  far  and  wide.  Many  solitary  figures  he  perceives, 
creeping  through  the  streets  ;  many  solitary  figures  out 
on  heaths,  and  roads,  and  lying  under  haystacks.  But 
the  figure  that  he  seeks,  is  not  among  them.  Other  soli- 
taries he  perceives,  in  nooks  of  bridges,  looking  over ; 
and  in  shadowed  places  down  by  the  river's  level  ;  and 
a  dark,  dark,  shapeless  object  drifting  with  the  tide, 
more  solitary  than  all,  clings  with  a  drowning  hold  on 
his  attention. 

Where  is  she  ?  Living  or  dead,  where  is  she?  If,  as 
he  folds  the  handkerchief  and  carefully  pats  it  up,  it 
were  able,  with  an  enchanted  powder,  to  bring  before 
him  the  place  where  she  found  it,  and  the  night  land- 
scape near  the  cottage  where  it  covered  the  little  child, 
would  he  descry  her  there  ?  On  the  waste,  where  the 
brick-kilns  are  burning  with  a  pale  blae  flare  ;  where 
the  straw-roofs  of  the  w^retched  huts  in  which  the  bricks 
are  made,  are  being  scattered  by  the  wind,  where  the 
clay  and  water  are  hard  frozen,  and  the  mill  in  which 
the  gaunt  blind  horse  goes  round  all  day,  looks  like  an 
instrument  of  human  torture  ; — traversing  this  deserted 
blightod  spot,  there  is  a  lonely  figure  with  the  sad  world 
to  itself,  pelted  by  the  snow  and  driven  by  the  wind,  and 
cast  out,  it  would  seem,  from  all  companionship.  It  is 
the  figure  of  a  woman,  too  ;  but  it  is  miserably  dressed, 
and  no  such  clothes  ever  came  through  the  hall,  and  out 
at  the  great  door,  of  the  Dedlock  mansion. 

CHAPTER  LVIL 

Esther's  Narrative. 

I  HAD  gone  to  bed  and  fallen  asleep,  when  my  Guardian 
knocked  at  the  door  of  my  room  and  begged  me  to  get 
up  directly.  On  my  hurrying  to  speak  to  him  and  learn 
what  had  happened,  he  told  me,  after  a  word  or  two  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


43 


preparation,  that  there  Iiad  T^een  a  discovery  at  Sir  Let 
cester  Dedlock's.  That  my  mother  had  fled.  That  a 
person  was  now  at  our  door  who  was  empowered  to  con- 
vey to  her  the  fullest  assurances  of  affectionate  protec- 
tion and  forgiveness,  if  he  could  possibly  find  her  ;  and 
that  I  was  sought  for  to  accompany  him,  in  the  hope 
that  my  entreaties  might  prevail  upon  her,  if  his  failed. 
Something  to  this  general  purpose  I  made  out  ;  but  I 
was  thrown  into  such  a  tumult  of  alarm,  and  hurry,  and 
distress,  that  in  spite  of  every  effort  I  could  make  to 
subdue  my  agitation,  I  did  not  seem,  to  myself,  fully  to 
recover  my  right  mind  until  hours  had  passed. 

But  I  dressed  and  wrapped  up  expeditiously  without 
waking  Charley,  or  any  one  ;  and  went  down  to  Mr. 
Bucket,  who  was  the  person  entrusted  with  the  secret. 
In  taking  me  to  him  my  Guardian  told  me  this,  and  also 
explained  how  it  was  that  he  had  come  to  think  of  me. 
Mr.  Bucket,  in  a  low  voice,  by  the  light  of  my  Guar- 
dian's candle,  read  to  me,  in  the  hall,  a  letter  that  my 
mother  had  left  upon  her  table  ;  and,  I  suppose  within 
ten  minutes  of  my  having  been  aroused,  I  was  sitting 
beside  him,  rolling  swiftly  through  the  streets. 

His  manner  was  very  keen,  and  yet  considerate  when 
he  explained  to  me  that  a  great  deal  might  depend  on 
my  being  able  to  answer,  without  confusion,  a  few  ques- 
tions that  he  wished  to  ask  me.  These  w^ere,  chiefly, 
whether  I  had  had  much  communication  with  my  mother 
(to .whom  he  only  referred  as  Lady  Dedlock) ;  when  and 
where  I  had  spoken  with  her  last ;  and  how  she  had  be- 
come possessed  of  ^my  handkerchief.  When  I  had  satis- 
fied him  on  these  points,  he  asked  me  particularly  to 
consider — taking  time  to  think — whether,  within  my 
knowledge,  there  was  any  one,  no  matter  where,  in 
whom  she  might  be  at  all  likely  to  confide,  under  cir- 
cumstances of  the  last  necessity.  I  could  think  of  no 
one  but  my  Guardian.  But,  by-and-by,  I  mentioned  Mr. 
Boythorn.  He  came  into  my  mind,  as  connected  with 
his  old  chivalrous  manner  of  mentioning  my  mother's 
name  ;  and  with  what  my  Guardian  had  informed  me  of 
his  engagement  to  her  sister,  and  his  unconscious  con- 
nexion with  her  unhappy  story. 

My  companion  had  stopped  the  driver  while  we  held 
this  conversation,  that  we  might  the  better  hear  each 
other.  He  now  told  him  to  go  on  again  ;  and  said  to  me, 
after  considering  within  himself  for  a  few  moments,  that 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  how  to  proceed.  He  was 
quite  willing  to  tell  me  what  his  plan  was,  but  I  did  not 
feel  clear  enough  to  understand  it. 

We  had  not  driven  very  far  from  our  lodgings,  when 
we  stopped  in  a  bye  street,  at  a  public-looking  place 
lighted  up  with  gas,   Mr,  Bucket  took  me  in  and  sat  me 


44  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  an  arm-cliair,  by  a  bright  fire.  It  was  now  past  one, 
as  I  saw  by  the  clock  ag'ainst  the  wall.  Two  police 
officers,  looking  in  their  perfectly  neat  uniform  not  at 
all  like  people  who  were  up  all  night,  were  quietly  writ- 
ing at  a  desk ;  and  the  place  seemed  very  quiet,  alto- 
gether, except  for  some  beating  and  calling  out  at  dis- 
tant doors  underground,  to  which  nobody  paid  any  at- 
tention. 

A  third  man  in  uniform,  whom  Mr.  Bucket  called,  and 
to  whom  he  whispered  his  instructions,  went  out ;  and 
then  the  two  others  advised  together,  while  one  wrote 
from  Mr.  Bucket's  subdued  dictation.  It  was  a  descrip- 
tion of  my  mother  that  they  were  busy  with  ;  for  Mr. 
Bucket  brought  it  to  me  when  it  was  done,  and  read  it 
in  a  whisper.    It  was  very  accurate  indeed. 

The  second  officer,  who  had  attended  to  it  closely, 
then  copied  it  out,  and  called  in  another  man  in  uniform 
(there  were  several  in  an  outer  room)  who  took  it  up  and 
went  away  with  it.  All  this  was  done  with  the  greatest 
despatch,  and  without  the  waste  of  a  moment ;  yet  no- 
body was  at  all  hurried.  As  soon  as  the  paper  was  sent 
out  upon  its  travels,  the  two  officers  resumed  theii 
former  quiet  work  of  writin^^  with  neatnes«  and  care. 
Mr.  Bucket  thoughtfully  came  and  warmed  the  soles  of 
his  boots,  first  one  and  then  the  other,  at  the  fire. 

"  Are  you  well  wrapped  up.  Miss  Summerson  ?  "  he 
asked  me,  as  his  eyes  met  mine.  ''It's  a  desperate 
sharp  night  for  a  young  lady  to  be  out  in.'' 

I  told  him  I  cared  for  no  weather,  and  was  warmly 
clothed.  * 

It  may  be  a  long  job,"  he  observed  ;  *'  but  so  that  it 
ends  weil,  never  mind,  miss." 

"  I  pray  to  Heaven  it  may  end  well !  "  said  I. 

He  nodded  comfortingly.  You  see,  whatever  you 
do,  don't  you  go  and  fret  yourself.  You  keep  yourself 
cool,  and  equal  for  anything  that  may  happen  ;  and  it'll 
be  the  better  for  you,  the  better  for  me,  the  better  for 
Lady  Dedlock,  and  the  better  for  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet." 

He  was  really  very  kind  and  gentle  ;  and  as  he  stood 
before  the  fire  warming  his  boots,  and  rubbing  his  face 
with  his  forefinger,  I  felt  a  confidence  in  his  sagacity 
which  re-assured  me.  It  was  not  yet  a  quarter  to  two, 
when  I  heard  horses'  feet  and  wheels  outside.  **  Now, 
Miss  Summerson,"  said  he,  ''we  are  off,  if  you  please  !" 

He  gave  me  his  arm,  and  the  two  officers  courteously 
bowed  me  out,  and  we  found  at  the  door  a  phaeton  or 
barouche,  with  a  postilion  and  post  horses.  Mr.  Bucket 
handed  me  in,  and  took  his  own  seat  on  the  box.  The 
man  in  uniform  whom  he  had  sent  to  fetch  this  equipage, 
then  handed  him  up  a  dark  lantern  at  his  request ;  and 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


45 


when  he  had  given  a  few  directions  to  the  driver,  we 
rattled  away. 

I  was  far  from  sure  that  I  was  not  in  a  dream.  We 
rattled  with  great  rapidity  through  such  a  labyrinth  of 
streets,  that  I  soon  lost  all  idea  where  we  were  ;  except 
that  we  had  crossed  and  recrossed  the  river,  and  still 
seemed  to  be  traversing  a  low-lying,  water-side,  dense 
neighbourhood  of  narrow  thoroughfares,  chequered  by 
docks  and  basins,  high  piles  of  warehouses,  swing- 
bridges,  and  masts  of  ships.  At  length  we  stopped  at 
the  corner  of  a  little  slimy  turning,  which  the  wind  from 
the  river,  rushing  up  it,  did  not  purify ;  and  I  saw  my 
companion,  by  the  light  of  his  lantern,  in  conference 
with  several  men,  who  looked  like  a  mixture  of  police 
and  sailors.  Against  the  mouldering  wall  by  which  they 
stood,  there  was  a  bill,  on  which  I  could  discern  the 
words,  ''Found  Drowned  and  this,  and  an  inscrip- 
tion about  Drags,  possessed  me  with  the  awful  suspicion 
shadowed  forth  in  our  visit  to  that  place. 

I  had  no  need  to  remind  myself  that  I  was  not  there, 
by  the  indulgence  of  any  feeling  of  mine,  to  increase  the 
difficulties  of  the  search,  or  to  lessen  its  hopes,  or  en- 
hance its  delays.  I  remained  quiet ;  but  what  I  suffered 
in  that  dreadful  spot  I  never  can  forget.  And  still  it  was 
like  the  horror  of  a  dream.  A  man  yet  dark  and  muddy, 
in  long  swollen  sodden  boots  and  a  hat  like  them,  was 
called  out  of  a  boat,  and  whispered  with  Mr.  Bucket, 
who  went  away  with  him  down  some  slippery  steps — as 
if  to  look  at  something  secret  that  he  had  to  show.  They 
came  back,  wiping  their  hands  upon  their  coats,  after 
turning  over  something  wet ;  but  thank  God  it  was  not 
what  I  feared ! 

After  some  further  conference,  Mr.  Bucket  (whom 
everybody  seemed  to  know  and  defer  to)  went  in  with 
the  others  at  a  door,  and  left  me  in  the  carriage  ;  while 
the  driver  walked  up  and  down  by  his  horses,  to  warm 
himself.  The  tide  was  coming  in,  as  I  judged  from  the 
sound  it  made  ;  and  I  could  hear  it  break  at  the  end  of 
the  alley,  with  a  little  rush  tovjards  me.  It  never  did 
so — and  I  thought  it  did  so,  hundreds  of  times,  in  what 
can  have  been  at  the  most  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and 
probably  was  less — but  the  thought  shuddered  through 
me  that  it  'vould  cast  my  mother  at  the  horses*  feet. 

Mr.  Bucket  came  out  again,  exhorting  the  others  to  be 
vigilant,  darkened  his  lantern,  and  once  more  took  his 
seat.  Don't  you  be  alarmed.  Miss  Summerson,  on  ac- 
count of  our  coming  down  here,"  he  said,  turning  to 
me.  *'I  only  want  to  have  everything  in  train,  and  to 
know  that  it  is  in  train  by  looking  after  it  myself.  Get 
on,  my  lad  !  " 

We  appeared  to  retrace  the  way  we  had  come.  Not 


46 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


that  I  had  taken  note  of  any  particular  objects  in  my 
perturbed  state  of  mind,  but  judging  from  the  general 
character  of  the  streets.  We  called  at  another  office  or 
station  for  a  minute,  and  crossed  the  river  again.  Dur. 
ing  the  whole  of  this  time,  and  during  the  whole  search, 
my  companion,  wrapped  up  on  the  box,  never  relaxed 
in  his  vigilance  a  single  moment ;  but,  when  we  crossed 
the  bridge  he  seemed,  if  possible,  to  be  more  on  the  alert 
than  before.  He  stood  up  to  look  over  the  parapet ;  he 
alighted,  and  went  back  after  a  shadowy  female  figure 
that  flitted  past  us  ;  and  he  gazed  into  the  profound 
black  pit  of  water,  with  a  face  that  made  my  heart  die 
within  me.  The  river  had  a  fearful  look,  so  overcast 
and  secret,  creeping  away  so  fast  between  the  low  flat 
lines  of  shore  :  so  heavy  with  indistinct  and  awful  shapes, 
both  of  substance  and  shadow  :  so  deathlike  and  mys- 
terious. I  have  seen  it  many  times  since  then,  by  sun- 
light and  by  moonlight,  but  never  free  from  the  impres- 
sions of  that  journey.  In  my  memory,  the  lights  upon 
the  bridge  are  always  burning  dim  ;  the  cutting  wind  is 
eddying  round  the  homeless  woman  whom  we  pass  ;  the 
monotonous  wheels  are  wliirling  on  ;  and  the  light  of  the 
carriage  lamps  reflected  back,  looks  palely  in  upon  me — 
a  face,  rising  out  of  the  dreaded  water. 

Clattering  and  clattering  through  the  empty  streets, 
we  came  at  length  from  the  pavement  on  to  dark  smooth 
roads,  and  began  to  leave  the  houses  behind  us.  After 
a  while,  I  recognized  the  familiar  way  to  Saint  Albans. 
At  Barnet,.  fresh  horses  were  ready  for  us,  and  we 
changed  and  went  on.  It  was  very  cold  indeed  ;  and  the 
open  country  was  white  with  snow,  though  none  was 
falling  then. 

An  old  acquaintance  of  yours,  this  road.  Miss  Sum- 
merson,"  said  Mr.  Backet,  cheerfully. 

''Yes,"  I  returned.  Have  you  gathered  any  intel- 
ligence ?  " 

None  that  can  be  quite  depended  on  as  yet,"  he  an- 
swered ;  ''but it's  early  times  as  yet." 

He  had  gone  into  every  late  or  early  public-house 
where  there  was  a  light  (there  were  not  a  few  at  that 
time,  the  road  being  then  much  frequented  by  drovers), 
and  had  got  down  to  talk  to  the  turnpike  keepers.  I  had 
heard  him  ordering  drink,  and  chinking  money,  and 
making  himself  agreeable  and  merry  everywhere ;  but 
whenever  he  took  his  seat  upon  the  box  again,  his  face 
resumed  its  watchful  steady  look,  and  he  always  said  to 
the  driver  in  the  same  business  tone,  "  Get  on,  my  lad  I 

With  all  these  stoppages,  it  was  between  five  and  six 
o'clock  and  we  were  yet  a  few  miles  short  of  Saint  Albans, 
when  he  came  out  of  one  of  these  houses  and  handed  me 
in  a.  cup  of  tea. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


47 


*'  Drink  it,  Miss  Summerson,  it'll  do  you  good.  You're 
begiDning  to  get  more  yourself  now,  ain't  you?" 

I  thanked  him,  and  said  I  hoped  so. 

"You  was  what  you  may  call  stunned  at  first,"  he  re- 
turned, "  and  Lord  I  no  wonder.  Don't  speak  loud,  my 
dear.    It's  all  right.  She's  on  ahead." 

I  don't  know  what  joyful  exclamation  I  made,  or  was 
going  to  make,  but  he  put  up  his  finger,  and  I  stopped 
myself. 

**  Passed  through  here  on  foot,  this  evening,  about 
eight  or  nine.  I  heard  of  her  first  at  the  archway  toll, 
over  at  Highgate,  but  couldn't  make  quite  sure.  Traced 
her  all  along,  on  and  off.  Picked  her  up  at  one  place, 
and  dropped  her  at  another  ;  but  she's  before  us  now, 
gafe.  Take  hold  of  this  cup  and  saucer.  Ostler.  Now, 
if  you  wasn't  brought  up  to  the  butter  trade,  look  out 
and  see  if  you  can  catch  half-a-crown  in  your  t'other 
hand.  One,  two,  three,  and  there  you  are  I  Now,  my 
lad,  try  a  gallop  !  " 

We  were  soon  in  Saint  Albans,  and  alighted  a  little 
before  day,  when  I  was  just  beginning  to  arrange  and 
comprehend  the  occurrences  of  the  night,  and  really  to 
believe  that  they  were  not  a  dream.  Leaving  the  carri- 
age at  the  posting-house,  and  ordering  fresh  horses  to  be 
ready,  my  companion  gave  me  his  arm,  and  we  went 
towards  home. 

As  this  is  your  regular  abode.  Miss  Summerson,  you 
see,"  he  observed,  *'  I  should  like  to  know  whether  you've 
been  asked  for  by  any  stranger  answering  the  description, 
or  whether  Mr.  Jarndyce  has.  I  don't  much  expect  it, 
but  it  might  be." 

As  we  ascended  the  hill,  he  looked  about  him  with  a 
sharp  eye — the  daywas  now  breaking— and  reminded  me 
that  I  had  come  down  it  one  night,  as  I  had  reason  io^ 
remembering,  with  my  little  servant  and  poor  Jo  :  whom 
he  called  Toughey. 

I  wondered  how  he  knew  that. 

When  you  passed  a  man  upon  the  road,  just  yonder, 
you  know,"  said  Mr.  Bucket. 

Yes,  I  remembered  that  too,  very  well. 

"  That  was  me,"  said  Mr.  Bucket. 

Seeing  my  surprise,  he  went  on  : 

**  I  drove  down  in  a  gig  that  afternoon,  to  look  after 
that  boy.  You  might  have  heard  my  wheels  when  you 
came  out  to  look  after  him  yourself,  for  I  was  aware  of 
you  and  your  little  maid  going  up,  when  I  was  walking 
the  horse  down.  Making  an  inquiry  or  two  about  him 
in  the  town,  I  soon  heard  what  company  he  was  in  ;  and 
was  coming  among  the  brick-fields  to  look  for  him,  when 
I  observed  you  bringing  him  home  here." 
Had  he  committed  any  crime  ?  "  I  asked. 


48 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


"None  was  charged  against  him/'  said  Mr.  Bucket, 
coolly  lifting  off  his  hat  ;  "  but  I  suppose  he  wasn't  over 
particular.  No.  What  I  wanted  him  for,  was  in  con- 
nexion with  keeping  this  very  matter  of  Lady  Dedlock 
quiet.  He  had  been  making  his  tongue  more  free  than 
welcome,  as  to  a  small  accidental  service  he  had  been 
paid  for  by  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  ;  and  it 
wouldn't  do  at  any  sort  of  price,  to  have  him  playing 
those  games.  So  having  warned  him  out  of  London,  I 
made  an  afternoon  of  it  to  warn  him  to  keep  out  of  it  now 
he  was  away,  and  go  farther  from  it,  and  maintain  a 
bright  look  out  that  I  didn't  catch  him  coming  back 
again." 

"  Poor  creature  !  "  said  I. 

"Poor  enough,"  assented  Mr.  Bucket,  "and  trouble 
enough,  and  well  enough  away  from  London,  or  anywhere 
else.  I  was  regularly  turned  on  my  back  when  I  found 
him  taken  up  by  your  establishment,  1  do  assure  you." 

I  asked  him  why?  "Why,  my  dear?"  said  Mr. 
Bucket.  "  Naturally  there  was  no  end  to  his  tongue  then. 
He  might  as  well  have  been  born  with  a  yard  and  a  half 
of  it,  and  a  remnant  over." 

Although  I  remember  this  conversation  now,  my  head 
was  in  confusion  at  the  time,  and  my  power  of  attention 
hardly  did  more  than  enable  me  to  understand  that  he 
entered  into  these  particulars  to  divert  me.  With  the 
same  kind  intention,  manifestly,  he  often  spoke  to  me  of 
indifferent  things,  while  his  face  was  busy  with  the  one 
object  that  he  had  in  view.  He  still  pursued  this  sub- 
ject as  we  turned  in  at  the  garden  gate. 

"Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Bucket.  "Here  we  are,  and  a  nice 
retired  place  it  is.  Puts  a  man  in  mind  of  the  country 
house  in  the  Woodpecker  tapping,  that  was  known  by 
the  smoke  which  so  gracefully  curled.  They're  early 
with  the  kitchen  fire,  and  that  denotes  good  servants. 
But  what  you've  always  got  to  be  careful  of  with  serv- 
ants, is,  who  comes  to  see  'em  ;  you  never  know  what 
they're  up  to,  if  you  don't  know  that.  And  another  thing, 
my  dear.  Whenever  you  find  a  young  man  behind  the 
kitchen  door,  you  give  that  young  man  in  charge  on  sus- 
picion of  being  secreted  in  a  dwelling-house  with  an  un- 
lawful purpose." 

We  were  now  in  front  of  the  house  ;  he  looked  atten- 
tively and  closely  at  the  gravel  for  foot-prints,  before  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  windows. 

"  Do  you  generally  put  that  elderly  young  gentleman 
in  the  same  room,  when  he's  on  a  visit  here.  Miss 
Summerson  ?  "  he  inquired,  glancing  at  Mr.  Skimpole's 
iisual  chamber. 

"  You  know  Mr.  Skimpole  !  "  said  I. 

'*  What  do  you  call  him  again  ?  "  returned  Mr.  bucket, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


49 


bending  down  his  ear.       Skimpole,  is  it  ?   I've  often 
wondered  what  his  name  might  be.     Skimpole.  Not 
John,  I  should  say,  nor  yet  Jacob  ?  " 
Harold,"  I  told  him. 

"  Harold.  Yes.  He's  a  queer  bird  is  Harold," — said 
Mr.  Bucket,  eyeing  me  with  great  expression. 

**  He  is  a  singular  character,"  said  I. 

"No  idea  of  money,"  observed  Mr.  Bucket. — '*He 
takes  it  though  !  " 

I  involuntarily  returned  for  answer,  that  I  perceived 
Mr.  Bucket  knew  him. 

Why,  now  PU  tell  you,  Miss  Summerson,"  he  re- 
joined. Your  mind  will  be  all  the  better  for  not  run- 
ning on  one  point  too  continually,  and  Til  tell  you  for  a 
change.  It  was  him  as  pointed  out  to  me  where  Toughey 
was.  I  made  up  my  mind,  that  night,  to  come  to  the 
door  and  ask  for  Tough ey,  if  that  was  all ;  but,  willing 
to  try  a  move  or  so  first  if  any  such  was  on  the  board,  I 
just  pitched  up  a  morsel  of  gravel  at  that  window  where 
I  saw  a  shadow.  As  soon  as  Harold  opens  it  and  I  have 
had  a  look  at  him,  thinks  I,  you're  the  man  for  me.  So 
I  smoothed  him  down  a  bit,  about  not  wanting  to  disturb 
the  family  after  they  was  gone  to  bed,  and  about  it's 
being  a  thing  to  be  regretted  that  charitable  young  ladies 
should  harbour  vagrants  ;  and  then,  when  I  pretty  well 
understood  his  ways,  I  said,  I  should  consider  a  fypun- 
note  well  bestowed  if  I  could  relieve  the  premises  of 
Toughey  without  causing  any  noise  or  trouble.  Then 
says  he,  lifting  up  his  eyebrows  in  the  gayest  w^ay,  'it's 
no  use  mentioning  a  fypunnote  to  me,  my  friend,  because 
I'm  a  mere  child  in  such  matters,  and  have  no  idea  of 
money.'  Of  course  I  understood  what  his  taking  it  so 
easy  meant  ;  and  being  now  quite  sure  he  was  the  man 
for  me,  I  wrapped  the  note  round  a  little  stone  and 
threw  it  up  to  him.  Well  I  He  laughs  and  beams,  and 
looks  as  innocent  as  you  like,  and  says,  *  But  I  don't 
know  the  value  of  these  things.  What  am  I  to  do  with 
this?*  '  Spend  it,  sir,'  says  I.  '  But  I  shall  be  taken  in,' 
he  says,  '  they  won't  give  me  the  right  change,  I  shall 
lose  it,  it's  no  use  to  me.'  Lord  you  never  saw  such  a 
face  as  he  carried  it  with  !  Of  course  he  told  me  where 
to  find  Toughey,  and  I  found  him." 

I  regarded  this  as  very  treacherous  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Skimpole,  towards  my  Guardian,  and  as  passing  the 
usual  bounds  of  his  childish  innocence. 

"  Bounds,  my  dear  ?  "  returned  Mr.  Bucket.  Bounds  t 
Now,  Miss  Summerson,  I'll  give  you  a  piece  of  advice 
that  your  husband  will  find  useful  when  you  are  hap- 
pily married  and  have  got  a  family  about  you.  When- 
ever a  person  says  to  you  that  they  are  as  innocent  as  can 
be  in  all  concerning  money,  look  well  after  your  own 


50 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


money,  for  they  are  dead  certain  to  collar  it,  if  they 
can.  Whenever  a  person  proclaims  to  you  '  In  worldly 
matters  Tm  a  child/  you  consider  that  that  person  is 
only  a  crying  off  from  being  held  accountable,  and  that 
you  have  got  that  person's  number,  and  it's  Number 
One.  Now,  I  am  not  a  poetical  man  myself,  except  in 
a  vocal  way  when  it  goes  round  a  company,  but  Tm 
a  practical  one,  and  that's  my  experience.  So's  this 
rule.  Fast  and  loose  in  one  thing.  Fast  and  loose  in 
everything.  I  never  knew  it  fail.  No  more  will  you. 
Nor  no  one.  With  which  caution  to  the  unwary,  my 
dear,  I  take  the  liberty  of  pulling  this  here  bell,  and  so 
^o  back  to  our  business. " 

I  believe  it  had  not  been  for  a  moment  out  of  his 
mind,  any  more  than  it  had  been  out  of  my  mind,  or  out 
of  his  face.  The  whole  household  werd  amazed  to  see 
me,  without  any  notice,  at  that  time  in  the  morning, 
and  so  accompanied  ;  and  their  surprise  was  not  dimin- 
ished by  my  inquiries.  No  one,  nowever,  had  been 
there.    It  could  not  be  doubted  that  this  was  the  truth. 

*'Then,  Miss  Summerson,"  said  my  companion,  we 
can't  be  too  soon  at  the  cottage  where  those  brickmakers 
are  to  be  found.  Most  inquiries  there  I  leave  to  you,  if 
you  will  be  so  good  as  to  make  'em.  The  naturalest  way 
is  the  best  way,  and  the  natuialest  way  is  your  own 
way." 

We  set  off  again  immediately.  On  arriving  at  the 
cottage,  we  found  it  shut  up,  and  apparently  deserted  ; 
but  one  of  the  neighbours  who  knew  me,  and  who  came 
out  when  I  was  trying  to  make  some  one  hear,  informed 
me  that  the  two  women  and  their  husbands  now  lived 
together  in  another  house,  made  of  loose  rough  bricks, 
which  stood  on  the  margin  of  the  piece  of  ground  where 
the  kilns  were,  and  where  the  long  rows  of  bricks  were 
drying.  We  lost  no  time  in  repairing  to  this  place, 
which  was  within  a  few  hundred  yards ;  and  as  the  door 
stood  ajar,  I  pushed  it  open. 

There  were  only  three  of  them  sitting  at  breakfast ; 
the  child  lying  asleep  on  a  bed  in  the  corner.  It  was 
Jenny,  the  mother  of  the  dead  child,  who  was  absent. 
The  other  woman  rose  on  seeing  me  ;  and  the  men, 
though  they  were,  as  usual,  sulky  and  silent,  each  gave 
me  a  morose  nod  of  recognition.  A  look  passed  between 
them  when  Mr.  Bucket  followed  me  in,  and  I  was  sur^ 
prised  to  see  that  the  woman  evidently  knew  Mm. 

I  had  asked  leave  to  enter  of  course.  Liz  (the  onl^ 
tiame  by  which  I  knew  her)  rose  to  give  me  her  own 
chair,  but  I  sat  down  on  a  stool  near  the  fire,  and  Mr. 
Bucket  took  a  corner  of  the  bedstead.  Now  that  I  had 
to  speak,  and  was  among  people  with  whom  I  was  not 
familiar,  I  became  conscious  of  being  hurried  and  giddy. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


51 


It  TV  as  very  difficult  to  begin,  and  I  could  not  help  burst 
ing  into  tears. 

**Liz,"  said  I,  I  have  come  a  long  v/ay  in  the  night 
and  through  the  snow,  to  inquire  after  a  lady — " 

'*  Who  has  been  here  you  know,''  Mr.  Bucket  struck 
in,  addressing  the  whole  group,  with  a  composed  pro* 
pitiatory  face  ;  "  that's  the  lady  the  young  lady  means. 
The  lady  that  was  here  last  night,  you  know." 

**  And  who  told  you  as  there  was  anybody  here  ?  '*  in- 
quired Jenny's  husband,  who  had  made  a  surly  stop  in 
his  eating,  to  listen,  and  now  measured  him  with  his  eye. 

A  person  of  the  name  of  Michael  Jackson,  in  a  blue 
welveteen  waistcoat  with  a  double  row  of  mother  of  pearl 
buttons,"  Mr.  Bucket  immediately  answered. 

*'  He  had  as  good,  mind  his  own  business,  whoever  he 
is,"  growled  the  man. 

"He's  out  of  employment  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Bucket, 
apologetically  for  Michael  Jackson,  *'  and  so  gets  talk- 
ing." 

The  woman  had  not  resumed  her  chair,  but  stood  fal- 
tering with  her  hand  upon  its  broken  back,  looking  at 
me.  I  thought  she  would  have  spoken  to  me  privately, 
if  she  had  dared.  She  was  still  in  this  attitude  of  un- 
certainty, when  her  husband,  who  was  eating  w-ith  a  lump 
of  bread  and  fat  in  one  hand,  and  his  clasp-knife  in  the 
other,  struck  the  handle  of  his  knife  violently  on  the 
table,  and  told  her  with  an  oath  to  mind  lier  business  at 
any  rate,  and  sit  down. 

I  should  like  to  have  seen  Jenny  very  much,"  said  I, 
**  for  I  am  sure  she  would  have  told  me  all  she  could 
about  this  lady,  whom  I  am  very  anxious  indeed — you 
cannot  think  how  anxious:  )  overtake.  Will  Jenny  be 
here  soon  ?   Where  is  she  ?  " 

The  woman  had  a  great  desire  to  answer,  but  the  man, 
with  another  oath,  openly  kicked  at  her  foot  with  his 
heavy  boot.  He  left  it  to  Jenny's  husband  to  say  what 
he  chose,  and  after  a  dogged  silence  the  latter  turned 
his  shaggy  head  towards  me. 

I'm  not  partial  to  gentlefolks  coming  into  my  place, 
as  you've  heerd  me  say  afore  now,  I  think,  miss.  I  let 
their  places  be,  and  it's  curous  they  can't  let  my  place  be. 
There'd  be  a  pretty  shine  made  if  I  was  to  go  a  wisiting 
them,  I  think.  Howsoever,  I  don't  so  much  complain  of 
you  as  of  some  others  ;  and  I'm  agreeable  to  make  you  a 
civil  answer,  though  I  give  notice  that  I'm  not  a  going 
to  be  drawed  like  a  badger.  Will  Jenny  be  here  soon  ? 
No  she  won't.  Where  is  she?  She's  gone  up  to  Lun- 
nun." 

" Did  she  go  last  night?"  I  asked. 
"  Did  she  go  last  night  ?   Ah  I  she  went  last  night," 
he  answered,  with  a  sulky  jerk  of  his  head. 


52 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"  But  was  she  here  wlien  the  lady  came  ?  And  what 
did  the  lady  say  to  her  ?  And  where  is  the  lady  gone  ? 
I  beg  and  pray  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me,"  said  I, 

for  I  am  in  great  distress  to  know." 

"  If  my  master  would  let  me  speak,  and  not  say  a  word 
of  harm — "  the  womanly  timidly  began. 

Your  master,"  said  her  husband,  muttering  an  im- 
precation with  slow  emphasis,  will  break  your  neck,  if 
you  meddle  with  wot  don't  concern  you." 

After  another  silence,  the  husband  of  the  absent  wom- 
an, turning  to  me  again,  answered  me  with  his  usual 
grumbling  unwillingness. 

Wos  Jenny  here  when  the  lady  come  ?  Yes,  she  wos 
here  when  the  lady  come.  Wot  did  the  lady  say  to  her? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you  wot  the  lady  said  to  her.  She  said, 
'  You  remember  me  as  come  one  time  to  talk  to  you  about 
the  young  lady  as  had  been  a  wisiting  of  you?  You  re- 
member me  as  give  you  somethink  handsome  for  a  hand- 
kercher  wot  she  had  left  ? '  Ah,  she  remembered.  So 
we  all  did.  Well,  then,  wos  that  young  lady  up  at  the 
house  now  ?  No,  she  warn't  up  at  the  house  now.  Well, 
then,  lookee  here.  The  lady  was  upon  a  journey  all  alone, 
strange  as  we  might  think  it,  and  could  she  rest  herself 
where  you're  a  setten,  for  a  hour  or  so.  Yes  she  could 
could,  and  so  she  did.  Then  «he  went — ^it  might  be  at 
twenty  minutes  past  eleven,  and  it  might  be  at  twenty 
minutes  past  twelve  ;  we  ain't  got  no  watches  here  to 
know  the  time  by,  nor  yet  clocks.  Where  did  she  go  ? 
I  don't  know  where  she  go'd.  She  went  one  way,  and 
Jenny  went  another  ;  one  went  right  to  Lunnun,  and 
t'other  went  right  from  it.  That's  all  about  it.  Ask 
this  man.    He  heerd  it  all,  and  see  it  all.    He  knows." 

The  other  man  repeated,    That's  all  about  it." 

"  Was  the  lady  crying  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Devil  a  bit,"  returned  the  first  man.  "  Her  shoes 
was  the  worse,  and  her  clothes  was  the  worse,  but  she 
warn't — not  as  I  see." 

The  woman  sat  with  her  arms  crossed,  and  her  eyes 
upon  the  ground.  Her  husband  had  turned  his  seat  a 
little,  so  as  to  face  her  ;  and  kept  his  hammer-like  hand 
upon  the  table,  as  if  it  were  in  readiness  to  execute  his 
threat  if  she  disobeyed  him. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  object  to  my  asking  your  wife," 
said  I,    how  the  lady  looked  ?  " 

Come,  then  I "  he  gruffly  cried  to  her.  "  You  hear 
what  she  says.    Cut  it  short,  and  tell  her." 

"  Bad,"  replied  the  woman.  "  Pale  and  exhaustedo 
Very  bad." 

Did  she  speak  much  ?  " 

**  Not  much,  but  her  voice  was  hoarse." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


53 


She  answered,  looking  all  the  while  at  her  husband 
for  leave. 

"Was  she  faint?"  said  I.  ''Did  she  eat  or  drink 
here  ?  " 

"  Go  on  !"  said  the  husband,  in  answer  to  her  look. 
"  Tell  her  and  cut  it  short." 

"  She  had  a  little  water,  Miss,  and  Jenny  fetched  her 
some  bread  and  tea.    But  she  hardly  touched  it." 

"  And  when  she  went  from  here  " — I  was  proceeding, 
when  Jenny's  husband  impatiently  took  me  up. 

''When  she  went  from  here,  she  went  right  away 
Nor'ard  by  the  high  road.  Ask  on  the  road  if  you  doubt 
me,  and  see  if  it  warn't  so.  Now,  there's  the  end.  That's 
all  about  it." 

I  glanced  at  my  companion  ;  and  finding  that  he  had 
already  risen  and  was  ready  to  depart,  thanked  them 
for  what  they  had  told  me,  and  took  my  leave.  The 
woman  looked  full  at  Mr.  Bucket  as  he  went  out,  and  he 
looked  full  at  her. 

"  Now,  Miss  Summerson,"  he  said  to  me,  as  we  walked 
quickly  away.  "  They've  got  her  ladyship's  watch 
among  'em.    That's  a  positive  fact." 

"  You  saw  it?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Just  as  good  as  saw  it,"  he  returned.  "Else  why 
should  he  talk  about  his  'twenty  minutes  past,'  and 
about  his  having  no  watch  to  tell  the  time  by  ?  Twenty 
minutes  !  He  don't  usually  cut  his  time  so  fine  as  that. 
If  he  comes  to  half  hours,  it's  as  much  as  Jie  does.  Now, 
you  see,  either  her  ladyship  gave  him  that  watch,  or  he 
took  it.  I  think  she  gave  it  him.  Now,  what  should 
she  give  it  him  for?  What  should  she  give  it  him 
for?" 

He  repeated  this  question  to  himself  several  times  as 
we  hurried  on  ;  appearing  to  balance  between  a  variety 
of  answers  that  arose  in  his  mind. 

"If  time  could  be  spared,"  said  Mr.  Bucket — "  which 
is  the  only  thing  that  can't  be  spared  in  this  case — I 
might  get  it  out  of  that  woman  ;  but  it's  too  doubtful  a 
chance  to  trust  to,  under  present  circumstances.  They 
are  up  to  keeping  a  close  eye  upon  her,  and  any  fool 
knows  that  a  poor  cretur  like  her,  beaten  and  kicked  and 
scarred  and  bruised  from  head  to  foot,  will  stand  by  the 
husband  that  ill  uses  her,  through  thick  and  thin. 
There's  something  kept  back.  It's  a  pity  but  what  we 
had  seen  the  other  woman." 

I  regretted  it  exceedingly  ;  for  she  was  very  grateful, 
and  I  felt  sure  would  have  resisted  no  entreaty  of  mine. 

"  It's  possible,  Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr.  Bucket, 
pondering  on  it, "  that  her  ladyship  sent  her  up  to  London 
with  some  word  for  you,  and  it's  possible  that  her  hus- 
band got  the  watch  to  let  her  go.    K  don't  come  out  al- 


54 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


together  so  plain  as  to  please  me,  but  it's  on  the  cards. 
Now,  I  don't  take  kindly  to  laying  out  the  money  of  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  on  these  Roughs,  and  I  don't 
see  my  way  to  the  usefulness  of  it  at  present.  No  !  So 
far,  our  road,  JVtiss  Summerson,  is  for'ard — straight 
ahead — and  keeping  everything  quiet  1 " 

We  called  at  home  once  more,  that  I  might  send  a 
hasty  note  to  my  Guardian,  and  then  we  hurried  back  to 
where  we  had  left  the  carriage.  The  horses  were  brought 
out  as  soon  as  we  were  seen  coming,  and  we  were  on  the 
road  again  in  a  few  minutes. 

It  had  set  in  snowing  at  daybreak,  and  it  now  snowed 
hard.  The  air  was  so  thick  with  th^  darkness  of  the 
day  and  the  density  of  the  fall,  that  we  could  see  but  a 
very  little  way  in  any  direction.  Although  it  was  ex- 
tremely cold,  the  snow  was  but  partially  frozen,  and  it 
churned — with  a  sound  as  if  it  were  a  beach  of  small 
shells — under  the  hoofs  of  the  horses,  into  mire  and 
water.  They  sometimes  slipped  and  floundered  for  a 
mile  together,  and  we  were  obliged  to  come  to  a  stand- 
still to  rest  them.  One  horse  fell  three  times  in  this 
first  stage,  and  trembled  so,  and  was  so  shaken,  that  the 
driver  had  to  dismount  from  his  saddle  and  lead  him  at 
last. 

I  could  eat  nothing,  and  could  not  sleep  ;  and  I  grew 
so  nervous  under  those  delays,  and  the  slow  pace  at 
which  we  travelled,  that  I  had  an  unreasonable  desire 
upon  me  to  get  out  and  walk.  Yielding  to  my  com- 
panion's better  sense,  however,  I  remained  where  I  was. 
All  this  time,  kept  fresh  by  a  certain  enjoyment  of  the 
work  in  which  he  was  engaged,  he  was  up  and  down  at 
every  house  we  came  to  ;  addressing  people  whom  he 
had  never  beheld  before,  -as  old  acquaintances  ;  running 
in  to  warm  himself  at  every  fire  he  saw  ;  talking  and 
drinking  and  shaking  hands  at  every  bar  and  tap  ; 
friendly  with  every  waggoner,  wheelwright,  blacksmith, 
and  toll -taker;  yet  never  seeming  to  lose  time,  and 
always  mounting  to  the  box  again  with  his  watchful, 
steady  face,  and  his  business-like    Get  on,  my  lad  1" 

When  we  were  changing  horses  the  next  time,  he  came 
from  the  stable  yard,  and  with  the  wet  snow  encrusted 
upon  him,  and  dropping  off  him — plashing  and  crashing 
through  it  to  his  wet  knees,  as  he  had  been  doing  fre- 
quently since  we  left  Saint  Albans — and  spoke  to  me  at 
the  carriage  side. 

"  Keep  up  your  spirits.  It's  certainly  true  that  she 
came  on  here.  Miss  Summerson.  There's  not  a  doubt  of 
the  dress  by  this  time,  and  the  dress  has  been  seen  here." 
Still  on  foot?"  said  I. 

"  Still  on  foot.  I  think  the  gentleman  you  mentioned 
'^^aust  be  the  point  she's  aiming  at ;  and  yet  I  don't  IxkQ 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


55 


his  living  down  in  lier  own  part  of  tlie  country,  neither.*' 
I  know  so  little,"  said  I.    **  Tliere  may  be  some  one 
else  nearer  here,  of  whom  I  never  heard." 

That's  true.  But  whatever  you  do,  don't  you  fall  a 
crying,  my  dear  ;  and  don't  you  worry  yourself  no  more 
than  you  can  help.    Get  on,  my  lad  I " 

The  sleet  fell  all  that  day  unceasingly,  a  thick  mist 
came  on  early,  and  it  never  rose  or  lightened  for  a 
moment.  Such  roads  I  had  never  seen.  I  sometimes 
feared  we  had  missed  the  way  and  got  into  the  ploughed 
grounds,  or  the  marshes.  If  I  ever  thought  of  the  time 
I  had  been  out,  it  presented  itself  as  an  indefinite  period 
of  great  duration  ;  and  I  seemed,  in  a  strange  way, 
never  to  have  been  free  fi;om  the  anxiety  under  which  I 
then  laboured. 

As  we  advanced,  I  began  to  feel  misgivings  that  my 
companion  lost  confidence.  He  was  the  same  as  before 
with  all  the  roadside  people,  but  he  looked  graver  when 
he  sat  by  himself  on  the  box.  I  saw  his  finger  uneasily 
going  across  and  across  his  mouth,  during  the  whole  of 
one  long  weary  stage.  I  overheard  that  he  began  to  ask 
the  drivers  of  coaches  and  other  vehicles  coming  towards 
us,  what  passengers  they  had  seen  in  other  coaches  and 
vehicles  that  were  in  advance.  Their  replies  did  not  en- 
courage him.  He  always  gave  me  a  re-assuring  beck  of 
his  finger,  and  lift  of  his  eyelid  as  he  got  upon  the  box 
again ;  but  he  seemed  perplexed  now,  when  he  said, 
"Get  on,  my  lad  I" 

At  last,  when  we  were  changing,  he  told  me  that  he 
had  lost  the  track  of  the  dress  so  long  that  he  began  to 
be  surprised.  It  was  nothing,  he  said,  to  lose  such  a 
track  for  one  while,  and  to  take  it  up  for  another  while, 
and  so  on  ;  but  it  had  disappeared  here  in  an  unaccount- 
able manner,  and  we  had  not  come  upon  it  since.  This 
corroborated  the  apprehensions  I  had  formed,  when  he 
began  to  look  at  direction  posts,  and  to  leave  the  car- 
riage at  cross  roads  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  a  time, 
while  he  explored  them.  But/ 1  was  not  to  be  down* 
hearted,  he  told  me  ;  for  it  was  as  likely  as  not  that  the 
next  stage  might  set  us  right  again. 

The  next  stage^  however,  ended  as  that  one  ended  ;  we 
had  no  new  clue.  There  was  a  spacious  inn  here,  soli- 
tary, but  a  comfortable  substantial  building,  and  as  we 
drove  in  under  a  large  gateway  before  I  knew  it,  where 
a  landlady  and  her  pretty  daughters  came  to  the  carriage 
door,  entreating  me  to  alight  and  refresh  myself  while 
the  horses  were  making  ready,  I  thought  it  would  be  un- 
charitable to  refuse.  They  took  me  upstairs  to  a  warm 
room,  and  left  me  there. 

It  was  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  I  remember,  looking 
two  ways.    On  one  side,  to  a  stable-yard  open  to  a  bye- 


56 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


road,  where  the  ostlers  were  unharnessing  the  splashed 
and  tired  horses  from  the  muddy  carriage  ;  and  beyond 
that  to  the  bye-road  itself,  across  which  the  sign  was 
heavily  swinging  ;  on  the  other  side,  to  a  wood  of  dark 
pine-trees.  Their  branches  were  incumbered  with  snow, 
and  it  silently  dropped  off  in  wet  heaps  while  I  stood  at 
the  window.  Night  was  setting  in,  and  its  bleakness 
was  enhanced  by  the  contrast  of  the  pictured  fire  glow- 
ing and  gleaming  in  the  window-pane.  As  I  looked 
among  the  stems  of  the  trees,  and  followed  the  discol- 
oured marks  in  the  snow  where  the  thaw  was  sinking 
into  it  and  undermining  it,  I  thought  of  tbe  motherly 
face  brightly  set  off  by  daughters  that  had  just  now  wel- 
comed me,  and  of  my  mother  lying  down  in  such  a  wood 
to  die. 

I  was  frightened  when  I  found  them  all  about  me,  but  I 
remembered  that  before  I  fainted  I  tried  very  hard  not  to 
do  it ;  and  that  was  some  little  comfort.  They  cushioned 
me  up,  on  a  large  sofa  by  the  fire  ;  and  then  the  comely 
landlady  told  me  that  I  must  travel  no  further  to-night, 
but  must  go  to  bed.  But  this  put  me  into  such  a  trem- 
ble lest  they  should  detain  me  there,  that  she  soon 
recalled  her  words,  and  compromised  for  a  rest  of  half- 
an-hour. 

A  good  endearing  creature  she  was.  She,  and  her 
three  fair  girls  all  so  busy  about  me.  I  was  to  take  hot 
soup  and  broiled  fowl,  while  Mr.  Bucket  dried  himself 
and  dined  elsewhere  ;  but  I  could  not  do  it  when  a  snug 
round  table  was  presently  spread  by  the  fireside,  though 
I  was  very  unwilling  to  disappoint  them.  However,  I 
could  take  some  toast  and  some  hot  negus ;  and  as  I 
really  enjoyed  that  refreshment,  it  made  some  recom- 
pense. 

Punctual  to  the  time,  at  the  half-hour's  end  the  car- 
riage came  rumbling  under  the  gateway,  and  they  took 
me  down,  warmed,  refreshed,  comforted,  by  kindness, 
and  safe  (I  assured  them)  not  to  faint  any  more.  After  I 
had  got  in  and  had  taken  a  grateful  leave  of  them  all,  the 
youngest  daughter — a  blooming  girl  of  nineteen,  who 
was  to  be  the  first  married,  they  had  told  me — got  upon 
the  carriage  step,  reached  in,  and  kissed  me.  I  have 
never  seen  her,  from  that  hour,  but  I  think  of  her  to  this 
hour  as  my  friend. 

The  transparent  windows  with  the  fire  and  light,  look- 
ing  so  bright  and  warm  from  the  cold  darkness  out  of 
doors,  were  soon  gone,  and  again  we  were  crushing  and 
churning  the  loose  snow.  We  went  on  with  toil  enough  ; 
but  the  dismal  roads  were  not  much  worse  than  they 
had  been,  and  the  stage  was  only  nine  miles.  My  com- 
panion smoking  on  the  box — I  had  thought  at  the  last 
Inn  of  begging  him  to  do  so,  when  I  saw  him  standing  at 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


57 


a  great  fire  in  a  comfortable  cloud  of  tobacco — was  as 
vigilant  as  ever;  and  as  quickly  down  and  up  again, 
when  we  came  to  any  human  abode  or  any  human  crea- 
ture. He  had  lighted  his  little  dark  lantern,  which 
seemed  to  be  a  favourite  with  him,  for  we  had  lamps  to 
the  carriage  ;  and  every  now  and  then  he  turned  it  upon 
^ne,  to  see  that  I  was  doing  well.  There  was  a  folding- 
window  to  the  carriage-head,  but  I  never  closed  it,  for 
it  seemed  like  shutting  out  hope. 

We  came  to  the  end  of  the  stage,  and  still  the  lost 
trace  was  not  recovered.  I  looked  at  him  anxiously 
when  we  stopped  to  change  ;  bat  I  knew  by  his  yet  graver 
face,  as  he  stood  watching  the  ostlers,  that  he  had  heard 
nothing.  Almost  in  an  instant  afterwards,  as  I  leaned 
back  in  my  seat,  he  looked  in,  with  his  lighted  lantern 
in  his  hand,  an  excited  and  quite  different  man. 

"  Wh&i  is  it?''  said  I,  starting.    *'Is  she  here?" 

"*  No,  no.  Don't  deceive  yourself,  my  dear.  Nobody's 
here.    But  I've  got  it ! " 

The  crystallised  snow  was  in  his  eyelashes,  in  his  hair, 
lying  in  ridges  on  his  dress.  He  had  to  shake  it  from  his 
face,  and  get  his  breath,  before  he  spoke  to  me. 

**Now,  Miss  Summerson,"  said  he,  beating  his  finger 
on  the  apron,  "  don't  you  be  disappointed  at  what  I'm  a 
going  to  do.  You  know  me.  I'm  Inspector  Bucket,  and 
you  can  trust  me.  We've  come  a  long  way  ;  never  mind. 
Four  horses  out  there  for  the  next  stage  up  !    Quick  ! " 

There  was  a  commotion  in  the  yard,  and  a  man  came 
runaing  out  of  the  stables  to  know  ''if  he  meant  up  or 
down  ?  " 

Up,  I  tell  you  I    Up  !   Ain't  it  English  ?   Up  ! " 
*'Up?"  said  I,  astonished.    **  To  London  1   Are  we 
going  back  ?  " 

**Miss  Summerson,"  he  answered,  "back.  Straight 
back  as  a  die.  You  know  me.  Don't  be  afraid.  I'll 
follow  the  other,  by  G — ." 

''The  other?"  I  repeated.  "Who?" 

"You  called  her  Jenny,  didn't  you?  I'll  follow  her. 
Bring  those  two  pair  out  here,  for  a  crown  a  man.  Wake 
up,  some  of  you  ! " 

"You  will  not  desert  this  lady  we  are  in  search  of; 
you  will  not  abandon  her  on  such  a  night,  and  in  such  a 
state  of  mind  as  I  know  her  to  be  in  ! "  said  I,  in  an 
agony,  and  grasping  his  hand. 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear,  I  won't.  But  I'll  follow  the 
other.  Look  alive  here  with  them  horses.  Send  a  man 
fo'rard  in  the  saddle  to  the  next  stage,  and  let  him  send 
another  for'ard  again,  and  order  four  on,  up,  right 
through.    My  darling,  don't  you  be  afraid  !  " 

These  orders,  and  the  way  in  which  he  ran  about  the 
yard,  urging  them,  caused  a  general  excitement  that 


58 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


was  scarcely  less  bewildering  to  me  than  tlie  sudden 
change.  But,  in  the  height  of  the  confusion,  a  mounted 
man  galloped  away  to  order  the  relays,  and  our  horses^ 
were  put  to  with  great  speed. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  jumping  to  his  seat,  and 
looking  in  again — you'll  excuse  me  if  I'm  too  familiar 
-—don't  you  fret  and  worry  yourself  no  more  than  you  can 
help.  I  say  nothing  else  at  present ;  but  you  know  me, 
my  dear  ;  now,  don't  you  ?  " 

I  endeavoured  to  say  that  I  knew  he  was  far  more  capa- 
ble than  I  of  deciding  what  we  ought  to  do  ;  but  was  he 
sure  that  this  was  right  ?  Could  I  not  go  forward  by 
myself  in  search  of — I  grasped  his  hand  again  in  my 
distress,  and  whispered  it  to  him — of  my  own  mother. 

**My  dear,"  he  answered,  know,  I  know,  and 
would  1  put  you  wrong,  do  you  think?  Inspector 
Bucket.    Now  you  know  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

What  could  I  say  but  yes  ! 

'*  Then  you  keep  up  as  good  a  heart  as  you  can,  and 
you  rely  upon  me  for  standing  by  you,  no  less  than  by 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet.  Now,  are  you  right 
there?" 

'*  All  right,  sir  !  " 

"  Off  she  goes,  then.    And  get  on,  my  lads  ! " 

We  were  again  upon  the  melancholy  road  by  which 
we  had  come  ;  tearing  up  the  miry  sleet  and  thawing 
snow,  as  if  they  were  torn  up  by  a  water-wheel. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

A  Wintry  Day  and  Night. 

Still  impassive,  as  behoves  its  breeding,  the  Dedlock 
town  house  carries  itself  as  usual  towards  the  street  of 
dismal  grandeur.  There  are  powdered  heads  from  time 
to  time  in  the  little  windows  of  the  hall,  looking  out  at 
the  untaxed  powder  falling  all  day  from  the  sky  ;  and, 
in  the  same  conservatory,  there  is  peach  blossom  turn- 
ing itself  exotically  to  the  great  hall  fire  from  the  nip- 
ping weather  out  of  doors.  It  is  given  out  that  my  Lady 
has  gone  down  into  Lincolnshire,  but  is  expected  to 
return  presently. 

Rumour,  busy  overmuch,  however,  will  not  go  down 
into  Lincolnshire.  It  persists  in  flitting  and  chattering 
about  town.  It  knows  that  that  poor  unfortunate  man. 
Sir  Leicester,  has  been  sadly  used.  It  hears,  my  dear 
child,  all  sorts  of  shocking  things.  It  makes  the  world, 
of  five  miles  round,  quite  merry.  Not  to  know  that 
there  is  something  wrong  at  the  Dedlocks'  is  to  augur 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


59 


j^urself  unknown.  One  of  the  peachy-cheeked  charmers 
with  the  skeleton  throats,  is  already  apprised  of  all  the 
principal  circumstances  that  will  come  out  before  the 
Lords,  on  Sir  Leicester's  application  for  a  bill  of 
divorce. 

At  Blaze  and  Sparkle's  the  jewellers,  and  at  Sheen 
and  Gloss's  the  mercers,  it  is  and  will  be  for  several 
hours  the  topic  of  the  age,  the  feature  of  the  century. 
The  patronesses  of  those  establishments,  albeit  so  loftily 
inscrutable,  being  as  nicely  weighed  and  measured  there 
as  any  other  article  of  the  stock-in-trade,  are  perfectly 
understood  in  this  new  fashion  by  the  rawest  hand  be- 
hind the  counter.  Our  people,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  Blaza 
and  Sparkle  to  the  hand  in  question  on  engaging  him, 

our  people,  sir,  are  sheep — mere  sheep.  Where  two 
or  three  marked  ones  go,  all  the  rest  follow.  Keep  those 
two  or  three  in  your  eye,  Mr.  Jones,  and  you  have  the 
flock."  So,  likewise.  Sheen  and  Gloss  to  their  Jones,  in 
reference  to  knowing  where  to  have  the  fashionable 
people,  and  how  to  bring  what  they  (Sheen  and  Gloss) 
choose,  into  fashion.  On  similar  unerring  principles, 
Mr.  Sladdery  the  librarian,  and  indeed  the  great  farmer 
of  gorgeous  sheep,  admits  this  very  day,  **Why  yes, 
sir,  there  certainly  are  reports  concerning  Lady  Dedlock, 
very  current  indeed  among  my  high  connexion,  sir.  You 
see,  my  high  connexion  must  talk  about  something,  sir  ; 
and  it's  only  to  get  a  subject  into  vogue  with  one  or  two 
ladies  I  could  name,  to  make  it  go  down  with  the  whole. 
Just  what  I  should  have  done  with  those  ladies,  sir,  in 
the  case  of  any  novelty  you  had  left  to  me  to  bring  in,  they 
have  done  of  themselves  in  this  case  through  knowing 
Lady  Dedlock,  and  haing  perhaps  a  little  innocently 
jealous  of  her  too,  sir.  You'll  find,  sir,  that  this  topic 
will  be  very  popular  among  my  high  connexion.  If  it 
had  been  a  speculation,  sir,  it  would  have  brought 
money.  And  when  I  say  so,  you  may  trust  to  my  being 
right,  sir  ;  for  I  have  made  it  my  business  to  study  my 
high  connexion,  and  to  be  able  to  wind  it  up  like  a 
clock,  sir." 

Thus  rumour  thrives  in  the  capital,  and  will  not  go 
down  into  Lincolnshire.  By  half -past  five,  post  merid- 
ian. Horse  Guards'  time,  it  has  even  elicited  a  new  re- 
mark from  the  Honourable  Mr.  Stables,  which  bids  fair 
to  outshine  the  old  one,  on  which  he  has  so  long  rested 
his  colloquial  reputation.  This  sparkling  sally  is  to  the 
effect  that,  although  he  always  knew  she  was  the  best- 
groomed  woman  in  the  stud,  he  had  no  idea  she  was  a 
bolter.    It  is  immensely  received  in  turf-circles. 

At  feasts  and  festivals  also  :  in  firmaments  she  has 
often  graced,  and  among  constellations  she  outshone  but 
yesterday,  she  is  still  the  prevalent  subject.    What  is 


60 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


It  ?  Who  is  it  ?  When  was  it  ?  Where  was  it  ?  How 
was  it  ?  She  is  discussed  by  her  dear  friends  with  all 
the  genteelest  slang  in  vogue,  with  the  last  new  word, 
the  last  new  manner,  the  last  new  drawl,  and  the  per- 
fection of  polite  indifference.  A  remarkable  feature  of 
the  theme  is,  that  it  is  found  to  be  so  inspiring  that  sev- 
eral people  come  out  upon  it  who  never  came  out  before — 
positively  say  things  !  William  Buffy  carries  one  of  these 
smartnesses  from  the  place  where  he  dines,  down  to  the 
House,  where  the  Whip  for  his  party  hands  it  about 
with  his  snuff-box,  to  keep  men  together  who  want  to 
be  off,  with  such  effect  that  the  Speaker  (who  has  had 
it  privately  insinuated  into  his  own  ear  under  the  cor- 
ner of  his  wig)  cries  Order  at  the  bar  ! "  three  times 
without  making  an  impression. 

And  not  the  least  amazing  circumstance  connected 
with  her  being  vaguely  the  town  talk,  is,  that  people 
hovering  on  the  confines  of  Mr.  Sladdery's  high  connex- 
ion, people  who  know  nothing  and  ever  did  know  nothing 
about  her,  think  it  essential  to  their  reputation  to  pretend 
that  she  is  their  topic  too  ;  and  to  retail  her  at  second- 
hand with  the  last  new  word  and  the  last  new  manner, 
and  the  last  new  drawl,  and  the  last  new  polite  indiffer- 
ence, and  all  the  rest  of  it,  all  at  second-hand  but  con- 
sidered equal  to  new,  in  inferior  systems  and  to  fainter 
stars.  If  there  be  any  man  of  letters,  art,  or  science 
among  these  little  dealers,  how  noble  in  him  to  support 
the  feeble  sisters  on  such  majestic  crutches  1 

So  goes  the  wintry  day  outside  the  Dedlock  mansion. 
How  within  it  ? 

Sir  Leicester  lying  in  his  bed  can  speak  a  little,  though 
with  difficulty  and  indistinctness.  He  is  enjoined  to  si- 
lence and  to  rest,  and  they  have  given  him  some  opiate 
to  lull  his  pain  ;  for  his  old  enemy  is  very  hard  with 
him.  He  is  never  asleep,  though  sometimes  he  seems  to 
fall  into  a  dull  waking  doze.  He  caused  his  bedstead  to 
be  moved  out  nearer  to  the  window,  when  he  heard  it 
Was  such  inclement  weather  i  and  his  head  to  be  so 
adjusted,  that  he  could  see  the  driving  snow  and  sleet. 
He  watches  it  as  it  falls,  throughout  the  whole  wintry 
day. 

Upon  the  least  noise  in  the  house,  which  is  kept 
hushed,  his  hand  is  at  the  pencil.  The  old  housekeeper, 
sitting  by  him,  knows  what  he  would  write,  and  whis- 
pers, "  No,  he  has  not  come  back  yet,  Sir  Leicester.  It 
was  late  last  night  when  he  went.  He  has  been  but  a 
little  time  gone  yet." 

He  withdraws  his  hand,  and  falls  to  looking  at  the 
sleet  and  snow  again,  until  they  seem,  by  being  looked 
at,  to  fall  so  thick  and  fast,  that  he  is  obliged  to  close  his 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


61 


©yes  for  a  minute  on  the  giddy  whirl  of  white  flakes  and 
icy  blots. 

He  began  to  look  at  them  as  soon  as  it  was  light.  The 
day  is  not  yet  far  spen  ,  when  he  conceives  it  to  be  nec- 
essary that  her  rooms  hould  be  prepared  for  her.  It  is 
very  cold  and  wet.  Let  there  be  good  fires.  Let  them 
know  that  she  is  xpected.  Please  see  to  it  yourself. 
He  writes  to  this  -urpos  on  his  slate,  and  Mrs.  Rounce- 
well  with  a  heavy   eait  obeys. 

**For  I  dread,  Geor^  ,  '  the  old  lady  says  to  her  son, 
who  waits  below  to  keep  her  company  when  she  has  a 
little  leisure  ;  "I  dread,  my  dear,  that  my  Lady  will 
never  more  =;et  foot  within  these  walls." 
That's  a  bad  presentiment,  mother.'* 

*'Nor  yet  within  the  walls  of  Chesney  Wold,  my 
dear." 

"  That's  worse.    But  why,  mother  ! " 

'*  When  I  saw  my  Lady  yesterday,  George,  she  looked 
to  me — and  I  mav  say  at  me  too — as  if  the  step  on  the 
Ghost's  Walk  had  aim  st  walked  her  down." 

Come,  come !  You  alarm  yourself  with  old-story 
fears,  mother." 

"No  I  don't,  my  dear.    No  I  don't.    It's  going  on  for 
sixty  year  that  I  have  been  in  this  family,  and  I  never 
had  any  fears  .'or  it  before.    But  it's  breaking  up,  my 
dear  ;  the  great  old  Dedlock  family  is  breaking  up." 
I  hope  not,  mother." 

"  I  am  thankful  I  have  lived  1  ^ng  enough  to  be  with 
Sir  Leicester  in  this  illness  and  trou'  le  ;  for  I  know  I  am 
not  too  old,  xior  too  useless,  to  b'^  a  welcomer  sight  to 
him  than  anybody  else  in  my  place  would  be.  But  the 
step  on  the  Ghost's  Walk  will  walk  my  Lady  down, 
George  ;  it  has  been  many  a  day  behind  her,  and  now  it 
will  pass  her,  and  go  on," 

"Well,  mother  dear,  ^  ay  again,  I  hope  not." 

"Ah,  so  do  I,  George,"  the  old  h  dy  returns,  shaking 
her  head,  and  parting  her  folded  hands.  "But  if  my 
fears  come  true,  and  he  has  to  know  it,  who  will  tell 
him  !" 

"  Are  these  her  rooms?" 

"  These  are  my  Lady's  rooms,  just  as  she  left  them.'* 
"  Why  now,"  says  the  trooper,  glancing  round  him, 
and  speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  * '  I  begin  to  understand 
how  you  come  to  think  as  you  do  think,  mother.  Rooms 
get  an  awful  look  about  them  when  they  are  fitted  up, 
like  these,  for  one  person  you  are  used  to  see  in  them, 
and  that  person  is  away  under  any  shadow  :  let  alone 
being  God  knows  where," 

He  is  not  far  out.  As  all  partings  foreshadow  the 
great  final  one,— so,  empty  rooms,  bereft  of  a  familiar 
presence,  mournfully  whisper  what  your  room  and  what 


62 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


mine  iDiist  one  day  be.  My  Lady's  state  lias  a  hollow 
look,  thus  gloomy  and  abandoned  ;  and  in  the  inner 
apartment,  where  Mr.  J3ucket  last  night  made  his  secret 
perquisition,  the  traces  of  her  dresses  and  her  ornaments, 
even  the  mirrors  accustomed  to  retiect  them  when  they 
were  a  portion  of  herself,  have  a  desolate  and  vacant  air. 
Bark  and  cold  as  the  wintry  day  is,  it  is  darker  and 
colder  in  th^^se  deserted  chambers  than  in  many  a  hut, 
that  will  barely  exclude  the  weather  :  arid  though  the 
servants  heap  fires  in  the  grates,  and  set  the  conches  and 
the  chairs  within  the  warm  glass  screens  that  let  their 
ruddy  light  shoot  through  to  the  furthest  corners,  thertj 
is  a  heavy  cloud  upon  the  rooms  which  no  light  will 
dispel. 

The  old  housekeeper  and  her  son  remain  until  the 
preparations  are  complete,  and  then  she  returns  up- 
stairs. Volumnia  has  taken  Mrs.  Rounce well's  place  in 
the  meantime  :  though  pearl  necklaces  and  rouge  pots^ 
however  calculated  to  embellish  Bath,  are  but  indif<» 
ferent  comforts  to  the  invalid  under  present  circum- 
stances. Volumnia,  not  being  supposed  to  know  (and 
indeed  not  knowing)  what  is  the  matter,  has  found  it  a 
ticklish  task  to  offer  appropriate  observations  ;  and  con- 
sequently has  supplied  their  place  with  distracting 
smoothings  of  the  bed  linen,  elaborate  locomotion  on 
tiptoe,  vigilant  peeping  at  her  kinsman's  eyes,  and  one 
exasperating  whisper  to  herself  of  "He  is  asleep."  In 
disproof  of  which  superfluous  remark,  Sir  Leicester  has 
indignantly  written  on  the  slate,     I  am  not." 

Yielding,  therefore,  the  chair  at  the  bedside  to  the 
quaint  old  housekeeper,  Volumnia  sits  at  a  table  a  little 
removed ,  sympathetically  sighing.  Sir  Leicester  watches 
the  sleet  and  snow,  and  listens  for  the  returning  steps 
that  he  expects.  In  the  ears  of  his  old  servant,  looking 
as  if  she  had  stepped  out  of  an  old  picture -frame  to  at- 
tend a  summoned  Dedlock  to  another  world,  the  silence 
is  fraught  with  echoes  of  her  own  words,  "Who  will 
tell  him  ! " 

He  has  been  under  his  valet's  hands  this  morning,  to 
be  made  presentable  ;  and  is  as  well  got  up  as  the  cir= 
cumstances  will  allow.  He  is  propped  with  pillows, 
his  grey  hair  is  brushed  in  its  usual  manner,  his  linen 
is  arranged  to  a  nicety,  and  he  is  wrapped  in  a  responsi- 
ble dressing  gown.  His  eye-glass  and  his  watch  are 
ready  to  his  hand.  It  is  necessary — less  to  his  own  dig- 
nity now  perhaps,  than  for  her  sak  hat  he  should  be 
seen  as  little  disturbed,  and  as  much  himself,  as  may 
be.  Women  will  talk,  and  Volumnia,  thougl  a  Ded- 
lock,  is  no  exceptional  case.  He  keeps  her  her  .  there 
is  little  doubt  to  prevent  her  talk^n^  som  Xvhcrc  else. 


BLEAK  HOUSE, 


63 


He  is  very  ill  :  hut  he  makes  his  present  stand  against 
distress  of  mind  and  body,  most  courageously. 

The  fair  Volumnia  being  one  of  those  sprightly  girls 
who  cannot  long  continue  silent  without  imminent  peril 
of  seizure  by  the  dragon  Boredom,  soon  indicates  the 
approach  of  that  monster  with  a  series  of  undisguisable 
yawns.  Finding  it  impossible  to  suppress  those  yawns 
by  any  other  process  than  conversation,  she  compli- 
ments Mrs.  Bounce  well  on  her  son  ;  declaring  that  he 
positively  is  one  of  the  finest  figures  she  ever  saw,  and 
as  soldierly  a  looking  person  she  should  think,  as  what's 
his  name,  her  favourite  Life  Guardsman — the  man  she 
doats  on — the  dearest  of  creatures — who  was  killed  at 
Waterloo. 

Sir  Leicester  hears  this  tribute  with  so  much  su^^ 
prise,  and  stares  about  him  in  such  a  confused  way, 
that  Mrs.  Rouncewell  feels  it  necessary  to  explain. 

*'Miss  D  dlock  don't  speak  of  my  eldest  son.  Sir 
Leicester,  but  my  youngest.  I  have  found  him.  He 
has  come  me." 

Sir  Leicester  breaks  silence  with  a  harsh  cry.  George  t 
Your  son    eorge  come  home,  Mrs.  Rouncewell?" 

The  old  housekeeper  wipes  her  eyes.  Thank  God. 
Yes,  Sir  Leicester." 

Does  this  discovery  of  some  one  lost,  this  return  of 
some  one  so  long  gone,  come  upon  him  ae  a  strong  con- 
firmation of  his  hopes?  Does  he  think,  Shall  I  not, 
with  the  aid  I  have,  recall  her  safely  after  this  ;  there 
being  wer  hours  in  her  case  than  there  are  years  in 
his?" 

It  is  of  no  use  entreating  him  ;  he  is  determined  to 
speak  now,  and  he  does.  In  a  thick  crowd  of  sounds, 
but  still  intelligibly  enough  to  be  understood. 

Why  did  you  not  tell  me,  Mrs.  Rouncewell  ?  " 

''It  happened  only  yesterday.  Sir  Leicester,  and  I 
doubted  your  being  well  enough  to  be  talked  to  of  such 
things." 

Besides,  the  giddy  Volumnia  now  remembers  with 
her  little  scream  that  nobody  was  to  have  known  of  his 
being  Mrs.  Rouncewell's  son,  and  that  she  was  not  to 
have  told.  But  Mrs,  Rouncewell  protests,  with  warmth 
enough  to  swell  the  stomacher,  that  of  course  she  would 
iiave  told  Sir  Leicester  as  soon  as  he  got  better. 

"  Where  is  your  son  George,  Mrs.  Rouncewell  ?  "  asks 
Sir  Leicester. 

Mrs.  Rouncewell,  not  a  little  alarmed  by  his  disregard 
of  the  doctor's  injunctions,  replies,  in  London. 
"  Where  in  London  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rouncewell  is  constrained  to  admit  that  he  is  in 
the  house. 

*'  Bring  him  here  to  my  room.    Bring  him  directly." 


64 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  old  lady  can  do  nothing  but  go  in  search  of  him. 
Sir  Leicester,  with  such  power  of  movement  as  he  has, 
arranges  himself  a  little,  to  receive  him.  When  he  has 
done  so,  he  looks  out  again  at  the  falling  sleet  and  snow, 
and  listens  again  for  the  returning  steps.  A  quantity  of 
straw  has  been  tumbled  down  in  the  street  to  deaden 
the  noises  there,  and  she  might  be  driven  to  the  door 
perhaps  without  his  hearing  wheels. 

He  is  lying  thus,  apparently  forgetful  of  his  newer 
and  minor  surprise,  when  the  housekeeper  returns,  ac- 
companied by  her  trooper  son.  Mr.  George  approaches 
softly  to  the  bedside,  makes  his  bow,  squares  his  chest, 
and  stands,  with  his  face  flushed,  very  heartily  ashamed 
of  himself. 

**Good  Heaven,  and  it  is  really  George  Rouncewell  !  '* 
exclaims  Sir  Leicester.  * '  Do  you  remember  me, George  ?  " 

The  trooper  needs  to  look  at  him,  and  to  separate  this 
sound  from  that  sound,  before  he  knows  what  he  has 
said  ;  but  doing  this,  and  being  a  little  helped  by  his 
mother,  he  leplies  : 

"  I  must  have  a  very  bad  memory,  indeed,  Sir  Leicester, 
if  I  failed  to  remember  you," 

"  When  I  look  at  you,  George  Rouncewell,"  Sir  Lei- 
cester observes  with  difficulty,  see  something  of  a 
boy  at  Chesney  Wold — I  remember  well — very  well." 

He  looks  at  the  trooper  until  tears  come  into  his  eyes, 
and  then  he  looks  at  the  sleet  and  snow  again. 

I  ask  your  pardon.  Sir  Leicester,"  says  the  trooper, 
"but  would  you  accept  of  my  arms  to  raise  you  up. 
You  would  lie  easier.  Sir  Leicester,  if  you  would  allow 
me  to  move  you. " 

''If  you  please,  George  Rouncewell  ;  if  you  will  be 
so  good." 

The  trooper  takes  him  in  his  arms  like  a  child,  lightly 
raises  him,  and  turns  him  with  his  face  more  towards 
the  window.  Thank  you.  You  have  your  mother's 
gentleness,"  returns  Sir  Leicester,  and  your  own 
strength.    Thank  you." 

He  signs  to  him  with  his  hand  not  to  go  away.  George 
quietly  remains  at  the  bedside,  waiting  to  be  spoken  to. 

"  Why  did  you  wish  for  secrecy  ?  "  It  takes  Sir  Lei- 
cester some  time  to  ask  this. 

Truly  I  am  not  much  to  boast  of,  Sir  Leicester,  and 
I — I  should  still,  Sir  Leicester,  if  you  was  not  so  indis- 
posed— which  I  hope  you  will  not  be  long — I  should  still 
hope  for  the  favour  of  being  allowed  to  remain  unknown 
in  general.  That  involves  explanations  not  very  hard 
to  be  guessed  at,  not  very  well  timed  here,  and  not  very 
creditable  to  myself.  However  opinions  may  differ  on  a 
variety  of  subjects,  I  should  think  it  would  be  univers- 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


65 


ally  agreed,  Sir  Leicester,  that  I  am  not  ranch  to  boast 
of/' 

**  You  have  been  a  soldier,"  observes  Sir  Leicester, 
"  and  a  faithful  one.'' 

George  makes  his  military  bow.  **  As  far  as  that 
goes.  Sir  Leicester,  I  have  done  my  duty  under  discipline, 
and  it  was  the  least  I  could  do." 

"  You  find  me,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  whose  eyes  are 
much  attracted  towards  him,  far  from  well,  George 
Bounce  well." 

*'  I  am  very  sorry  both  to  hear  it  and  to  see  it.  Sir 
Leicester." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are.  No.  In  addition  to  my  older 
malady,  I  have  had  a  sudden  and  bad  attack.  Some- 
thing that  deadens — "  making  an  endeavour  to  pass  one 
hand  down  one  side  ;  *'  and  confuses — "  touching  his  lips. 

George,  with  a  look  of  assent  and  sympathy,  makes 
another  bow.  The  different  times  when  they  were  both 
young  men  (the  trooper  much  the  younger  of  the  two), 
AFad  looked  at  one  another  down  at  Chesney  Wold,  arise 
before  them  both  and  soften  both. 

Sir  Leicester,  evidently  with  a  great  determination  to 
say,  in  his  own  manner,  something  that  is  on  his  mind 
before  relapsing  into  silence,  tries  to  raise  himself  among 
his  pillows  a  little  more.  George  observant  of  the  action, 
takes  him  in  his  arms  again  and  places  him  as  he  desires 
to  be.  Thank  you,  George.  You  are  another  self  to 
me.  You  have  often  carried  my  spare  gun  at  Chesney 
Wold,  George.  You  are  familiar  to  me  in  these  strange 
circumstances,  very  familiar."  He  has  put  Sir  Leicester's 
sounder  arm  over  his  shoulder  in  lifting  him  up,  and  Sir 
Leicester  is  slow  in  drawing  it  away  again,  as  he  says 
these  words. 

I  was  about  to  add,''  he  presently  goes  on,  "  I  was 
about  to  add,  respecting  this  attack,  that  it  was  unfor- 
tunately simultaneous  with  a  slight  misunderstanding 
between  ray  Lady  and  myself.  I  do  not  mean  that  there 
was  any  difference  between  us  (for  there  has  been  none), 
but  that  there  was  a  misunderstanding  of  certain  cir- 
cumstances important  only  to  ourselves,  which  deprives 
me,  for  a  little  while,  of  my  Lady's  society.  She  has 
found  it  necessary  to  make  a  journey, — I  trust  will  shortly 
return.  Volumnia,  do  I  make  myself  intelligible?  The 
words  are  not  quite  under  my  command,  in  the  manner 
of  pronouncing  them." 

Volumnia  understands  him  perfectly  ;  and  in  truth  he 
delivers  himself  with  far  greater  plainness  than  could 
have  been  supposed  possible  a  minute  ago.  The  effort  by 
which  he  does  so,  is  written  in  the  anxious  and  labouring 
expression  of  his  face.  Nothing  but  the  strength  of  his 
purpose  enables  him  to  make  it. 

pp  Vol.  18 


66 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


**  Therefore,  Volumnia,  I  desire  to  say  in  your  presence 
— and  in  the  presence  of  my  old  retainer  and  friend,  Mrs. 
Rouncewell,  whose  truth  and  fidelity  no  one  can  ques- 
tion— and  in  the  presence  of  her  son  George,  who  comes 
back  like  a  familiar  recollection  of  my  youth  in  the 
home  of  my  ancestors  at  Chesney  Wold— in  case  I  should 
relapse,  in  case  I  should  not  recover,  in  case  I  should 
lose  both  my  speech  and  the  power  of  writing,  though  1 
hope  for  better  things — " 

The  old  housekeeper  weeping  silently  ;  Volumnia  in 
the  greatest  agitation,  with  the  freshest  bloom  on  her 
cheeks  ;  the  trooper  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  head 
a  little  bent,  respectfully  attentive. 

Therefore  I  desire  to  say,  and  to  call  you  all  to  wit- 
ness— beginning,  Volumnia,  with  yourself,  most  solemn- 
ly— that  I  am  on  unaltered  terms  with  Lady  Dedlock. 
That^  I  assert  no  cause  whatever  of  complaint  against  her. 
That  T  have  ever  had  the  strongest  affection  for  her,  and 
that  I  retain  it  undiminished.  Say  this  to  herself,  and 
to  every  one.  If  you  ever  say  less  than  this,  you  will  be 
guilty  of  deliberate  falsehood  to  me.'' 

Volumnia  tremblingly  protests  that  she  will  observe 
his  injunctions  to  the  letter. 

"My  Lady  is  too  high  in  position,  too  handsome,  too 
accomplished,  too  superior  in  most  respects  to  the  best 
of  those  by  whom  she  is  surrounded,  not  to  have  her 
enemies  and  traducers,  I  dare  say.  Let  it  be  known  to 
them,  as  I  make  it  known  to  you,  that  being  of  sound 
mind,  memory,  and  understanding,  I  revoke  no  disposi- 
tion I  have  made  in  her  favour.  I  abridge  nothing  I 
have  ever  bestowed  upon  her.  I  am  on  unaltered  terms 
with  her,  and  I  recall — having  the  full  power  to  do  it  if 
I  were  so  disposed,  as  you  see — no  act  I  have  done  for 
her  advantage  and  happiness." 

His  formal  array  of  words  might  have  at  any  other 
time,  as  it  has  often  had,  something  ludicrous  in  it ;  but 
at  this  time,  it  is  serious  and  affecting.  His  noble  ear- 
nestness, his  fidelity,  his  gallant  shielding  of  her,  his 
generous  conquest  of  his  own  wrong  and  his  own  pride 
for  her  sake,  are  simply  honourable,  manly,  and  true. 
Nothing  less  worthy  can  be  seen  through  the  lustre  of 
such  qualities  in  the  commonest  mechanic,  nothing  less 
worthy  can  be  seen  in  the  best-born  gentleman.  In  such 
a  light  both  aspire  alike,  both  rise  alike,  both  children  of 
the  dust  shine  equally. 

Overpowered  by  his  exertions,  he  lays  his  head  back 
on  his  pillows,  and  closes  his  eyes  ;  for  not  more  than  a 
minute  ;  when  he  again  resumes  his  watching  of  the 
weather,  and  his  attention  to  the  muffled  sounds.  In  the 
rendering  of  those  little  services,  and  in  the  manner  of 
their  acceptance,  the  trooper  has  become  installed  as 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


67 


necessary  to  him.  Nothing  has  been  said,  but  it  is  quite 
understood.  He  falls  a  step  or  two  backward  to  be  out 
of  sight,  and  mounts  guard  a  little  behind  his  mother's 
chair. 

The  day  is  now  beginning  to  decline.  The  mist,  and 
the  sleet  into  which  the  snow  has  all  resolved  itself,  are 
darker,  and  the  blaze  begins  to  tell  more  vividly  upon 
the  room  walls  and  furniture.  The  gloom  augments  ; 
the  bright  gas  springs  up  in  the  streets  ;  and  the  perti- 
nacious oil  lamps  which  yet  hold  their  ground  there, 
with  their  source  of  life  half  frozen  and  half  thawed, 
twinkle  gaspingly,  like  fiery  fish  out  of  water — as  they 
are.  The  world,  which  has  been  rumbling  over  the 
straw  and  pulling  at  the  bell  '*to  inquire,"  begins  to  go 
home,  begins  to  dress,  to  dine,  to  discuss  its  dear  friend, 
with  all  the  last  new  modes,  as  already  mentioned. 

Now,  does  Sir  Leicester  become  worse  ;  restless,  un- 
easy, and  in  great  pain.  Volumnia  lighting  a  candle 
(with  a  predestined  aptitude  for  doing  something  objec- 
tionable) is  bidden  to  put  it  out  again,  for  it  is  not  yet 
dark  enough.  Yet  it  is  very  dark  too  ;  as  dark  as  it 
will  be  all  night.  By  and  by  she  tries  again.  No  I 
Put  it  out.    It  is  not  dark  enough  yet. 

His  old  housekeeper  is  the  first  to  understand  that  he 
is  striving  to  uphold  the  fiction  with  himself  that  it  is 
not  growing  late. 

Dear  Sir  Leicester,  my  honoured  master,"  she  softly 
whispers,  *'I  must,  for  your  own  good,  and  my  duty, 
take  the  freedom  of  begging  and  praying  that  you  will 
not  lie  here  in  the  lone  darkness,  watching  and  waiting, 
and  dragging  through  the  time.  Let  me  draw  the  cur- 
tains and  light  the  candles,  and  make  things  more  com- 
fortable about  you.  The  church-clocks  will  strike  the 
hours  just  the  same.  Sir  Leicester,  and  the  night  will 
pass  away  just  the  same.  My  Lady  will  come  back  just 
the  same." 

"I  know  it,  Mrs.  Rouricewell,  but  I  am  weak — and  he 
has  been  so  long  gone." 

"  Not  so  very  long.  Sir"  Leicester.  Not  twenty-four 
hours  yet." 

** But  that  is  a  long  time.  O  it  is  a  long  time  I" 
He  says  it-  with  a  groan  that  wrings  her  heart. 
She  knows  that  this  is  not  a  period  for  bringing  the 
tough  light  upon  him  ;  she  thinks  his  tears  too  sacred  to 
be  seen,  even  by  her.  Therefore,  she  sits  in  the  dark- 
ness for  a  while,  without  a  word  ;  then  gently  begins  to 
move  about  ;  now  stirring  the  fire,  now  standing  at  the 
dark  window  looking  out.  Finally  he  tells  her,  with  re- 
covered self-command,  **As  you  say,  Mrs.  Rouncewell, 
it  is  no  worse  for  being  confessed.  It  is  getting  late, 
and  they  are  not  come.    Light  the  room  ! "    When  it  is 


68 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


lighted,  and  the  weather  shut  out,  it  is  only  left  to  him 
to  listen. 

But  they  find  that,  however  dejected  and  ill  he  is,  he 
brightens  when  a  quiet  pretence  is  made  of  looking  at 
the  fires  in  her  rooms,  and  being  sure  that  everything  is 
ready  to  receive  her.  Poor  pretence  as  it  is,  these  allu- 
sions to  her  being  expected  keep  up  hope  within  him. 

Midnight  comes,  and  with  it  the  same  blank.  The 
carriages  in  the  streets  are  few,  and  other  late  sounds  in 
that  neighbourhood  there  are  none,  unless  a  man  so  very 
nomadically  drunk  as  to  stray  into  the  frigid  zone  goes 
brawling  and  bellowing  along  the  pavement.  Upon  this 
wintry  night  it  is  so  still,  that  listening  to  the  intense 
silence  is  like  looking  at  intense  darkness.  If  any  dis- 
tant sound  be  audible  in  this  case,  it  departs  through  the 
gloom  like  a  feeble  light  in  that,  and  all  is  heavier  than 
before. 

The  corporation  of  servants  are  dismissed  to  bed  (not 
unwilling  to  go,  for  they  were  up  all  last  night),  and  only 
Mrs.  Rouncewell  and  George  keep  watch  in  Sir  Leices- 
ter's room.  As  the  night  lags  tardily  on — or  rather 
when  it  seems  to  stop  altogether,  at  between  two  and 
three  o'clock — they  find  a  restless  craving  on  him  to 
know  more  about  the  weather,  now  he  cannot  see  i-t. 
Hence  George,  patrolling  regularly  every  half  hour  to 
the  rooms  so  carefully  looked  after,  extends  his  march 
to  the  hall-door,  looks  about  him,  and  brings  back  the 
best  report  he  can  make  of  the  worst  of  nights  ;  the 
sleet  still  falling,  and  even  the  stone  footways  lying 
ankle-deep  in  icy  sludge. 

Volumnia  in  her  rocm  up  a  retired  landing  on  the 
staircase — the  second  turning  past  the  end  of  the  carv- 
ing and  gilding — a  cousinly  room  containing  a  fearful 
abortion  of  a  portrait  of  Sir  Leicester,  banished  for  its 
crimes,  and  commanding  in  the  day  a  solemn  yard, 
planted  with  dried-up  shrubs  like  antediluvian  speci- 
mens of  black  tea — is  a  prey  to  horrors  of  many  kinds. 
Not  last  nor  least  among  them,  possibly,  is  a  horror  of 
what  may  befall  her  little  income,  in  tlie  event,  as  she 
expresses  it,  of  anything  happening''  to  Sir  Leicester, 
Anything,  in  this  sense,  meaning  one  thing  oniy,  and 
that  the  last  thing  that  can  happen  to  the  consciousness 
of  any  baronet  in  the  known  world. 

An  effect  of  these  horrors  is,  that  Volumnia  finds  she 
cannot  go  to  bed  in  her  own  room,  or  sit  by  the  fire  in 
her  own  room,  but  must  come  forth  with  her  fair  head 
tied  up  in  a  profusion  of  shawl,  and  her  fair  form  en- 
robed in  drapery,  and  parade  the  mansion  like  a  ghost : 
particularly  haunting  the  rooms,  warm  and  luxurious, 
prepared  for  one  who  still  does  not  return.  Solitude 
under  such  circumstances  being  not  to  be  thought  of, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


69 


Volumnia  is  attended  by  her  maid,  who,  impressed  from 
her  own  bed  for  that  purpose,  extremely  cold,  very  sleepy, 
and  generally  an  injured  maid  as  condemned  by  circum- 
stances to  take  oflBice  with  a  cousin,  when  she  had  re- 
solved to  be  maid  to  nothing  less  than  ten  thousand  a 
year,  has  not  a  sweet  expression  of  countenance. 

The  periodical  visits  of  the  trooper  to  these  rooms, 
however,  in  the  course  of  his  patrolling,  is  an  assurance 
of  protection  and  company,  both  to  mistress  and  maid, 
which  renders  them  very  acceptable  in  the  small  hours 
of  the  night.  Whenever  he  is  heard  advancing,  they 
both  make  some  little  decorative  preparation  to  receive 
him  ;  at  other  times,  they  divide  their  watches  into  short 
scraps  of  oblivion,  and  dialogues,  not  wholly  free  from 
acerbity,  as  to  whether  Miss  Dedlock,  sitting  with  her 
feet  upon  the  fender,  was  or  was  not  falling  into  the 
fire  when  rescued  (to  her  great  displeasure)  by  her  guard- 
ian genius  the  maid. 

How  is  Sir  Leicester,  now,  Mr.  George?"  inquires 
Volumnia,  adjusting  her  cowl  over  her  head. 

"  Why,  Sir  Leicester  is  much  the  same,  miss.  He  is 
very  low  and  ill,  and  he  even  wanders  a  little  sometimes.'' 

**  Has  he  asked  for  me  ?  "  inquires  Volumnia  tenderly. 

**  Why  no,  I  can't  say  he  has,  miss.  Not  within  my 
hearing,  that  is  to  say." 

**  This  is  a  truly  sad  time,  Mr.  George." 

*'It  is  indeed,  miss.    Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed  ? '* 

**You  had  a  deal  better  go  to  bed,  Miss  Dedlock," 
quoth  the  maid,  sharply. 

But  Volumnia  answers  No  !  No  I  She  may  be  asked 
for,  she  may  be  wanted  at  a  moment's  notice.  She  never 
should  forgive  herself  * '  if  anything  was  to  happen  "  and 
she  was  not  on  the  spot.  She  declines  to  enter  on  the 
question,  mooted  by  the  maid,  how  the  spot  comes  to  be 
there,  and  not  in  her  own  room  (which  is  nearer  to  Sir 
Leicester's) ;  but  staunchly  declares  that  on  the  spot  she 
will  remain.  Volumnia  further  makes  a  merit  of  not 
having  "closed  an  eye" — as  if  she  had  twenty  or  thirty 
— though  it  is  hard  to  reconcile  this  statement  with  her 
having  most  indisputably  opened  two  within  five  minutes. 

But  Avhen  it  comes  to  four  o'clock,  and  still  the  same 
blank,  Volumnia's  constancy  begins  to  fail  her,  or  rather 
it  begins  to  strengthen  ;  for  she  now  considers  that  it 
is  her  duty  to  be  ready  for  the  morrow,  when  much  may 
be  expected  of  her  ;  that,  in  fact,  howsoever  anxious  to 
remain  upon  the  spot,  it  may  be  required  of  her,  as  an 
act  of  self-devotion,  to  desert  the  spot.  So,  when  the 
trooper  re-appears  with  his  ''Hadn't  yoa  better  go  to 
bed,  miss?"  and  when  the  maid  protests,  more  sharplj 
than  before,  **You  had  a  deal  better  go  to  bed.  Miss 


70 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Dedloc^I'*  she  meekly  rises  and  says,  "Do  with  me 
what  you  think  best ! " 

Mr.  George  undoubtedly  thinks  it  best  to  escort  her 
on  his  arm  to  the  door  of  her  cousinly  chamber,  and  the 
maid  as  undoubtedly  thinks  it  best  to  hustle  her  into 
bed  with  mighty  little  ceremony.  Accordingly,  these 
steps  are^  taken  ;  and  now  the  trooper,  in  his  rounds,  has 
the  house  to  himself. 

There  is  no  improvement  in  the  weather.  From  the 
portico,  from  the  eaves,  from  the  parapet,  from  every 
ledge,  and  post  and  pillar,  drips  the  thawed  snow.  It 
has  crept,  as  if  for  shelter,  into  the  lintels  of  the  great 
door — under  it  into  the  comers  of  the  windows,  into  every 
chink  and  crevice  of  retreat,  and  there  wastes  and  dies. 
It  is  falling  still ;  upon  the  roof,  upon  the  skylight ; 
even  through  the  skylight,  and  drip,  drip,  drip,  with  the 
regularity  of  the  Ghost's  Walk,  on  the  stone  floor  below. 

The  trooper,  his  old  recollections  awakened  by  the 
solitary  grandeur  of  a  great  house — no  novelty  to  him 
once  at  Chesney  Wold — goes  up  the  stairs  and  through 
the  chief  rooms,  holding  up  his  light  at  arm's  length. 
Thinking  of  his  varied  fortunes  within  the  last  few 
weeks,  and  of  his  rustic  boyhood,  and  of  the  two  periods 
of  his  life  so  strangoly  brought  together  across  the  wide 
intermediate  space  ;  thinking  of  the  murdered  man 
whose  image  is  fresh  in  his  mind  ;  thinking  of  the  lady 
who  has  disappeared  from  these  very  rooms,  and  the 
tokens  of  whose  recent  presence  are  all  here ;  thinking 
'of  the  master  of  the  house  up-stairs,  and  of  the  fore- 
boding *'  Who  will  tell  him  I  "  he  looks  here  and  looks 
there,  and  reflects  how  he  might  see  something  now, 
which  it  would  tax  his  boldness  to  walk  up  to,  lay  his 
band  upon,  and  prove  to  be  a  fancy.  But  it  is  all  blank  ; 
blank  as  the  darkness  above  and  below,  while  he  goes 
ftp  the  great  staircase  again ;  blank  as  the  oppressive 
ulence. 

All  is  still  in  readiness,  George  Rouncewell?*' 

Quite  orderly  and  right.  Sir  Leicester.'* 

No  word  of  any  kind  ?  " 
The  trooper  shakes  his  head. 

No  letter  that  can  possibly  have  been  overlooked?^' 
But  he  knows  there  is  no  such  hope  as  that,  and  lays 
his  head  down  without  looking  for  an  answer. 

Very  familiar  to  him,  as  he  said  himself  some  hours 
ago,  George  Rouncewell  lifts  him  into  easier  positions 
through  the  long  remainder  of  the  blank  wintry  night ; 
and,  equally  familiar  with  his  unexpressed  wish,  ex- 
tinguishes the  light,  and  undraws  the  curtains  at  the 
first  late  break  of  day.  The  day  comes  like  a  phantom. 
Cold,  colourless,  and  vague,  it  sends  a  warning  streak 
before  it  of  a  deathlike  hue,  as  if  it  cried  out,  Look 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


71 


what  I  am  bringing  you,  who  watch  there  I  Who  will 
tell  him  1  " 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

Estlier'8  Narratim. 

It  was  three  o*clock  in  the  morning  when  the  houses 
outside  London  did  at  last  begin  to  exclude  the  country, 
and  to  close  us  in  with  streets.  We  had  made  our  way 
along  roads  in  a  far  worse  condition  than  when  we  had 
traversed  them  by  daylight,  both  the  fall  and  the  thaw 
having  lasted  ever  since  ;  but  the  energy  of  my  com- 
panion had  never  slackened.  It  had  only  been,  as  I 
thought,  of  less  assistance  than  the  horses  in  getting  us 
on,  and  it  had  often  aided  them.  They  had  stopped  ex- 
hausted halfway  up  hills,  they  had  been  driven  through 
streams  of  turbulent  water,  they  had  slipped  down  and 
become  entangled  with  the  harness  ;  but  he  and  his 
little  lantern  had  been  always  ready,  and  when  the 
mishap  was  set  right,  I  had  never  heard  any  variation 
in  his  cool    Get  on,  my  lads  ! " 

The  steadiness  and  confidence  with  which  he  had 
directed  our  journey  back,  I  could  not  account  for.  Never 
wavering,  he  never  even  stopped  to  make  an  inquiry 
until  we  were  within  a  few  miles  of  London.  A  very 
few  words,  here  and  there,  were  then  enough  for  him  ; 
and  thus  we  came,  at  between  three  and  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  into  Islington. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  suspense  and  anxiety  with 
which  I  reflected  all  this  time,  that  we  v/ere  leaving  my 
mother  farther  and  farther  behind  every  minute.  I 
think  I  had  some  strong  hope  that  he  must  be  right,  and 
could  not  fail  to  have  a  satisfactory  object  in  following 
this  woman  ;  but  I  tormented  myself  with  questioning 
it,  and  discussing  it,  during  the  whole  journey.  What 
was  to  ensue  when  we  found  her,  and  what  could  com- 
pensate us  for  this  loss  of  time,  were  questions  also  that 
I  could  not  possibly  dismiss  ;  my  mind  was  quite  tor- 
tured by  long  dwelling  on  such  reflections,  when  we 
stopped. 

We  stopped  in  a  high-street,  where  there  was  a  coach- 
stand.  My  companion  paid  our  two  drivers,  who  were 
as  completely  covered  with  splashes  as  if  they  had 
been  dragged  along  the  roads  like  the  carriage  itself  ; 
and  giving  them  some  brief  direction  where  to  take 
it.  lifted  me  out  of  it,  and  into  a  hackney-coach  he  had 
chosen  from  the  rest. 

Why,  my  dear,"  he  said,  as  he  did  this.  "  How  wet 
you  are  I " 


72  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I  had  not  been  ccnscioug  of  it.  But  the  melted  snoj^ 
had  found  its  way  into  the  carriage  ;  and  I  had  got  out 
two  or  three  times  when  a  fallen  horse  was  plunging 
and  had  to  be  got  up  ;  and  the  wet  had  penetrated  my 
dress.  I  assured  him  it  was  no  matter  ;  but  the  driver, 
who  knew  him,  would  not  be  dissuaded  by  me  from  run- 
ning down  the  street  to  his  stable,  whence  he  brought  an 
armful  of  clean  dry  straw.  They  shook  it  out  and  strewed 
it  well  about  me,  and  I  found  it  warm  and  comfortable. 

Now,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  with  his  head  in 
at  the  window  after  I  was  shut  up.  **  We're  going  to 
mark  this  person  down.  It  may  take  a  little  time,  but 
you  don't  mind  that.  You're  pretty  sure  that  I've  got 
a  motive.    Ain't  you?" 

I  little  thought  what  it  was — little  thought  in  how 
short  a  time  I  should  understand  it  better ;  but  I  as- 
sured him  that  I  had  confidenc*^  in  him. 

So  you  may  have,  my  dear,"  he  returned.  And  I 
tell  you  what  I  If  you  only  repose  half  as  much  confi- 
dence in  me  as  I  repose  in  you,  alter  what  I've  expe- 
rienced of  you,  that'll  do.  Lord  !  you're  no  trouble  at 
all.  I  never  see  a  young  woman  in  any  station  of  society 
— and  I've  seen  many  elevated  ones  too — conduct  herself 
like  you  have  conducted  yourself,  since  you  was  called 
out  of  your  bed.  You're  a  pattern,  you  know,  that's 
what  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Bucket  warmly  ;  you're  a 
pattern. " 

I  told  him  I  was  very  glad,  as  indeed  I  was,  to  have 
been  no  hindrance  to  him  ;  and  that  I  hoped  I  should  be 
none  now. 

My  dear,"  he  returned,  ''when  a  young  lady  is  as 
mild  as  she's  game,  and  as  game  as  she's  mild,  that's  all 
I  ask,  and  more  than  I  expect.  She  then  becomes  a 
Queen,  and  that's  about  what  you  are  yourself." 

With  these  encouraging  words — they  really  were  en- 
couraging to  me  under  those  lonely  and  anxious  circum- 
stances— he  got  upon  the  box,  and  we  once  more  drove 
away.  Where  we  drove,  I  neither  knew  then,  nor  have 
ever  known  since  ;  but  we  appeared  to  seek  out  the  nar- 
rowest and  worst  streets  in  London.  Whenever  I  saw 
him  directing  the  driver,  I  was  prepared  for  our  descend- 
ing into  a  deex)er  complication  of  such  streets,  and  w© 
never  failed  to  do  so. 

Sometimes  we  emerged  upon  a  wider  thoroughfare,  or 
came  to  a  larger  building  than  the  generality,  well  light- 
ed Then  we  stopped  at  offices  like  those  we  had  visited 
when  we  began  our  journey,  and  I  saw  him  in  consulta- 
tion with  others.  Sometimes  he  would  get  down  by  an 
archway,  or  at  a  street  corner,  and  mysteriously  show 
the  light  of  his  little  lantern.  This  would  attract  simi- 
lar lights  from  various  dark  quarters,  like  so  many  in- 


BLEAK  nouSE. 


sects,  and  a  fresh  consultation  would  bo  lield.  By  de- 
grees we  appeared  to  contract  our  search  within  nar 
rower  and  easier  limits.  Single  police  officers  on  duty 
could  now  tell  Mr.  Bucket  what  he  wanted  to  know,  and 
point  to  him  where  to  go.  At  last  we  stopped  for  a 
rather  long  conversation  between  him  and  one  of  these 
men,  which  I  supposed  to  be  satisfactory  from  his  man- 
ner  of  nodding  from  time  to  time.  When  it  was  fin- 
ished he  came  to  me,  looking  very  busy  and  very  atten- 
tive. 

Now,  Miss  Summerson,"  he  said  to  me,  "  you  won't 
be  alarmed  whatever  comes  off,  I  know.  It's  not  neces- 
sary for  me  to  give  you  any  further  caution,  than  to  tell 
you  that  we  have  marked  this  person  down,  and  that 
you  may  be  of  use  to  me  before  I  know  it  myself.  I 
don't  like  to  ask  such  a  thing,  my  dear,  but  would  you 
walk  a  little  way  ?  " 

Of  course  I  got  out  directly,  and  took  his  arm. 

''It  ain't  so  easy  to  keep  your  feet,"  said  Mr.  Bucket ; 

but  take  time." 

Although  I  looked  about  me  confusedly  and  hurriedly, 
as  we  crossed  a  street,  I  thought  I  knew  the  place. 

Are  we  in  Holborn  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Bucket.  ''Do  you  know  this  turn- 
ing?" 

**It  looksi  like  Chancery  Lane." 

"And  was  christened  so,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bucket. 

We  turned  down  it ;  and  as  we  went,  shuffling 
through  the  sleet,  I  heard  the  clock  strike  half-past  five. 
We  passed  on  in  silence,  and  as  quickly  as  we  could 
with  such  a  foothold  ;  when  some  one  coming  towards 
us  on  the  narrow  pavement,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  stopped 
and  stood  aside  to  give  me  room.  In  the  same  moment 
I  heard  an  exclamation  of  wonder,  and  my  own  name, 
xrom  Mr.  Woodcourt.    I  knew  his  voice  very  well. 

It  was  so  unexpected,  and  so — I  don't  know  what  to 
3all  it,  whether  pleasant  or  painful — tc  come  upon  it 
after  my  feverish  wandering  journey,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  night,  that  I  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  from 
my  eyes.  It  was  like  hearing  his  voice  in  a  strange 
country. 

My  dear  Miss  Summerson,  that  you  should  be  out  at 
this  hour,  and  in  such  weather  ! " 

He  had  heard  from  my  Guardian  of  my  having  been 
called  away  on  some  uncommon  business,  and  said  so  to 
dispense  with  any  explanation.  I  told  him  that  we  had  but 
just  left  a  coach,  and  were  going — but  then  I  was  obliged 
to  look  at  my  companion. 

"  Why,  you  see,  Mr.  Woodcourt  ;  "  he  had  caught  the 
name  from  me  ;  "  we  are  a  going  at  present  into  the  next 
street. — Inspector  Bucket." 


74 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mr.  Woodcourt,  disregarding  my  remonstrances,  Lad 
hurriedly  taken  off  his  cloak,  and  was  putting  it  about 
me.  That's  a  good  move,  too,''  said  Mr.  Bucket,  as- 
sisting,    a  very  good  move.'' 

''May  I  go  with  you?"  said  Mr.  Woodcourt.  I  don't 
know  whether  to  me  or  my  companion. 

''  Why,  lord  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bucket,  taking  the  an- 
swer on  himself.    *'  Of  course  you  may." 

It  was  all  said  in  a  moment,  and  they  took  me  between 
them,  wrapped  in  a  cloak. 

**I  have  just  left  Richard,"  said  Mr.  Woodcourt.  "  I 
have  been  sitting  with  him  since  ten  o'clock  last  night.'' 

''0  dear  me,  he  is  ill  I" 

"No,  no,  believe  me  ;  not  ill,  but  not  quite  well.  He 
was  depressed  and  faint — you  know  he  gets  so  worried 
and  so  worn  sometimes— and  Ada  sent  to  me  of  course  ; 
and  when  I  came  home  I  found  her  note,  and  came  straight 
here.  Well !  Richard  revived  so  much  after  a  little 
S;vhile,  and  Ada  was  so  happy,  and  so  convinced  of  its 
being  my  doing,  though  God  knows  I  had  little  enough 
to  do  with  it,  that  I  remained  with  him  until  he  had 
been  fast  asleep  some  hours.  As  fast  asleep  as  she  is 
now,  I  hope  !  " 

His  friendly  and  familiar  way  of  speaking  of  them,  his 
unaffected  devotion  to  them,  the  grateful  confidence  with 
which  I  knew  he  inspired  my  darling,  and  the  comfort 
he  was  to  her  ;  could  I  separate  all  this  from  his  promise 
to  me  ?  How  thankless  I  must  have  been  if  it  had  not 
recalled  the  words  he  said  to  me,  when  he  was  so  moved 
by  the  change  in  my  appearance  ;  *'l  will  accept  him  as 
a  trust,  and  it  shall  be  a  sacred  one  ! " 

We  now  turned  into  another  narrow  street.  Mr. 
Woodcourt,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  who  had  eyed  him  closely 
as  we  came  along,  our  business  takes  us  to  a  law-sta- 
tioner's here  ;  a  certain  Mr.  Snagsby's.  What,  you  know 
Mm,  do  you  ?  "  He  was  so  quick  that  he  saw  it  in  an 
instant. 

**  Yes,  I  know  a  little  of  him,  and  have  called  upon  him 
at  this  place." 

"  Indeed,  sir  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bucket.  "  Then  will  you  be 
so  good  as  to  let  me  leave  Miss  Summerson  with  you  for 

moment,  while  I  go  and  have  half  a  word  with  him? " 

The  last  police  offieer  with  whom  he  had  conferred  was 
standing  silently  behind  us.  I  was  not  aware  of  it  until 
ke  struck  in,  on  my  saying  1  heard  some  one  crying. 

**  Don't  be  alarmed,  miss,"  he  returned.  *'  It's  Snags- 
Dy's  servant. " 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  "  the  girl's  subject 
%o  fits,  and  has  'em  bad  upon  her  to-night.  A  most  contrairy 
circumstance  it  is,  for  I  want  certain  information  out  of 
that  girl*  and  she  must  be  brought  to  reason  somehow." 


BLEAK  nOUSE. 


75 


"At  al]  events,  they  wouldn't  be  up  yet,  if  it  wasn't 
for  her,  Mr.  Bucket,"  said  the  other  man.  She's  been 
*t  it  pretty  well  all  night,  sir." 

Well,  that's  true,"  he  returned.  My  light's  burnt 
©ot.    Show  yours  a  moment. " 

All  this  passed  in  a  whisper,  a  door  or  twj  from  tt« 
house  in  which  I  could  faintly  hear  crying  and  moaning. 
In  the  little  round  of  light  produced  for  the  purpose, 
Mr.  Bucket  went  up  to  the  door  and  knocked.  The  door 
was  opened,  after  he  had  knocked  twice  ;  and  he  went 
in,  leaving  us  standing  in  the  street. 

*'Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr.  Woodcourt ;  "if,  with- 
out obtruding  myself  on  your  confidence,  I  may  remain 
near  you,  pray  let  me  do  so." 

*'  You  are  truly  kind,"  I  answered.  I  n'eed  v/ish  to 
keep  no  secret  of  my  own  from  you  ;  if  I  keep  any  it  is 
another's." 

"  I  quite  understand.  Trust  me,  I  will  remain  near 
you  only  so  long  as  I  can  fully  respect  it." 

"  I  trust  implicitly  to  you,"  I  said.  "  I  know  and 
deeply  feel  how  sacredly  you  keep  your  promise." 

After  a  short  time  the  little  round  of  light  shone  out 
again,  and  Mr.  Bucket  advanced  towards  us  in  it  with 
his  earnest  face.  * '  Please  to  come  in,  Miss  Summerson," 
he  said,  **and  sit  down  by  the  fire.  Mr.  Woodcourt, 
from  information  I  have  received  I  understand  you  are  a 
medical  man.  Would  you  look  to  this  girl  and  see  if 
anything  can  be  done  to  bring  her  round.  She  has  a  let- 
ter somewhere  that  I  particularly  want.  It's  not  in  her 
box,  and  I  think  it  must  be  about  her  ;  but  she  is  so  twisted 
and  clenched  up,  that  she  is  difficult  to  handle  without 
hurting. " 

We  all  three  went  into  the  house  together  ;  although 
it  was  cold  and  raw,  it  smelt  close  too  from  being  up  all 
night.  In  the  passage,  behind  the  door,  stood  a  scared, 
sorrowful -looking  little  man  in  a  grey  coat,  who  seemed 
to  have  a  naturally  polite  manner,  and  spoke  meekly. 

Down-stairs  if  you  please,  Mr.  Bucket,"  said  he. 
**The  lady  will  excuse  the  front  kitchen  ;  w^e  use  it  as 
our  workaday  sitting-room.  The  back  is  Guster's  bed- 
room, and  in  it  she's  a  carrying  on,  poor  thing,  to  a 
frightful  extent  ! " 

We  went  down-stairs,  followed  by  Mr.  Snagsby,  as  I 
soon  found  the  little  man  to  be.  In  the  front  kitchen, 
sitting  by  the  fire,  was  Mrs.  Snagsby,  with  very  red  eye» 
and  a  very  severe  expression  of  face. 

''My  little  woman,"  said  Mr.  Snagsby,  entering  be^ 
hind  us,  **to  wave — not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,, 
my  dear — hostilities,  for  one  single  moment,  in  the  course 
of  this  prolonged  night,  here  is  Inspector  Bucket,  Mr. 
Woodcourt  and  a  lady." 


16 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


She  looked  very  mucli  astonished,  as  she  had  reason 
for  doing,  and  looked  particularly  hard  at  me. 

My  little  woman,"  said  Mr.  Snagsby,  sitting  down 
in  the  remotest  corner  by  the  door,  as  if  he  were  taking 
a  liberty,  "it  is  not  unlikely  that  you  may  inquire  of  me 
why  Inspector  Bucket,  Mr.  Woodcourt,  and  a  lady,  call 
upon  us  in  Cook's  Court,  Cursitor  Street,  at  the  present 
hour.  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  the  least  idea.  If  I 
was  to  be  informed,  I  should  despair  of  understanding, 
and  I'd  rather  not  be  told. " 

He  appeared  so  miserable,  sitting  with  his  head  upon 
his  hand,  and  I  appeared  so  unwelcome,  that  I  was  going 
to  offer  an  apology,  when  Mr.  Bucket  took  the  matter  on 
himself. 

Now,  Mr.  Snagsby,"  said  he,  the  best  thing  you 
can  do,  is  to  go  along  with  Mr.  Woodcourt  to  look  after 
your  Guster — " 

*'My  Guster,  Mr.  Bucket !"  cried  Mr.  Snagsby.  Go 
on,  sir,  go  on.    I  shall  be  charged  with  that  next." 

And  to  hold  the  candle,"  pursued  Mr.  Bucket  with- 
out correcting  himself,  or  hold  her,  or  make  yourself 
useful  in  any  way  you're  asked.  Which  there's  not  a 
man  alive  more  ready  to  do  ;  for  you're  a  man  of  urbanity 
eind  suavity,  you  know,  and  you've  got  the  sort  of  heart 
that  can  feel  for  another.  (Mr.  Woodcourt,  would  you 
be  so  good  as  to  see  to  her,  and  if  you  can  get  that  let- 
ter from  her,  to  let  me  have  it  as  soon  as  ever  you  can  ?) " 
As  they  went  out,  Mr.  Bucket  made  me  sit  down  in  a 
corner  by  the  fire,  and  take  off  my  wet  shoes,  which  he 
turned  up  to  dry  upon  the  fender  ;  talking  all  the  time. 

Don't  you  be  at  all  put  out,  miss,  by  the  want  of  a 
hospitable  look  from  Mrs.  Snagsby  there,  because  she's 
under  a  mistake  altogether.  She'll  find  that  out,  sooner 
than  will  be  agreeable  to  a  lady  of  her  generally  correct 
manner  of  forming  her  thoughts,  because  I'm  a  going 
to  explain  it  to  her."  Here,  standing  on  the  heariih  witk 
his  wet  hat  and  shawls  in  his  hand,  himself  a  pile  of 
wet,  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Snagsby.  Now  the  first  thing 
that  I  say  to  you,  as  a  married  woman,  possessing  what 
you  may  call  charms,  you  know — '  Believe  me,  if  all 
those  endearing,  and  cetrer ' — you're  well  acquainted 
v»^ith  the  song,  because  it's  in  vain  for  you  to  tell  me  that 
you  and  good  society  are  strangers — charms — attractions, 
mind  you,  that  ought  to  give  you  confidence  in  yourself 
— is,  that  you've  done  it." 

Mrs.  Snagsby  looked  rather  alarmed,  relented  a  little, 
and  faltered,  what  did  Mr.  Bucket  mean  ? 

"What  does  Mr.  Bucket  mean?"  he  repeated  ;  and  I 
saw,  by  his  face,  that  all  the  time  he  talked  he  was  listen- 
ing for  the  discovery  of  the  letter — to  my  own  great  agi- 
tation ;  for  I  knew  then  how  important  it  must  be  ;  Til 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


77 


iell  7011  what  he  meaos,  ma'am.  Oo  and  see  Otbello 
acted.    That's  the  tragedy  for  you." 

Mrs.  Snagsby  consciously  asked  why. 

*'  Why  said  Mr.  Bucket.  "  Because  you'll  come  to 
that,  if  you  don't  look  out.  Why,  at  the  very  moment 
while  I  speak,  I  know  what  your  mind's  not  wholly  free 
from,  respecting  this  young  lady.  But  shall  I  tell  you 
who  this  young  lady  is  ?  Now,  come,  you're  what  I  call 
an  intellectual  woman — with  your  soul  too  large  for 
your  body,  if  you  come  to  that,  and  chafing  it — and  you 
know  me,  and  you  recollect  where  you  saw  me  last,  and 
what  was  talked  of  in  that  circle.  Don't  you  ?  Yes  I 
Very  well.    This  young  lady  is  that  young  lady. " 

Mrs.  Snagsby  appeared  to  understand  the  reference 
better  than  I  did  at  the  time. 

"  And  Toughey — him  as  you  call  Jo — was  mixed  up  in 
the  same  business,  and  no  other  ;  and  the  law-writer 
that  you  know  of,  was  mixed  up  in  the  same  business, 
and  no  other  ;  and  your  husband,  with  no  more  know- 
ledge of  it  than  your  great-grandfather,  was  mixed  up 
(by  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  deceased,  his  best  customer)  in  the 
same  business,  and  no  other  ;  and  the  whole  bileing  of 
people  was  mixed  up  in  the  same  business,  and  no  other. 
And  yet  a  married  woman,  possessing  your  attractions, 
shuts  her  eyes  (and  sparklers  too),  and  goes  and  runs 
her  delicate- formed  head  against  a  wall.  Why,  I  am 
ashamed  of  you  !  (I  expected  Mr.  Woodcourt  might 
have  got  it,  by  this  time.) " 

Mrs.  Snagsby  shook  her  head,  and  put  her  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes. 

**  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bucket,  excitedly.  No.  See 
what  happens.  Another  person  mixed  up  in  that  busi- 
ness and  no  other,  a  person  in  a  wretched  state,  coroes 
here  to-night,  and  is  seen  a  speaking  to  your  maid-ser- 
vant ;  and  between  her  and  your  maid- servant  there 
passes  a  paper  that  I  would  give  a  hundred  pound  for, 
down.  What  do  you  do  ?  You  hide  and  you  watch  'em, 
and  you  pounce  upon  that  maid-servant — knowing  what 
she's  subject  to,  and  what  a  little  thing  will  bring  'era 
on — in  that  surprising  manner,  and  with  that  severity, 
that,  by  the  Lord,  she  goes  off  and  keeps  off,  when  a  Life 
may  be  hanging  upon  that  girl's  words  ! " 

He  so  thoroughly  meant  what  he  said  now,  that  I  in- 
voluntarily clasped  my  hands,  and  felt  the  room  turning 
away  from  me.  But  it  stopped.  Mr.  Woodcourt  came 
in,  put  a  paper  into  his  hand,  and  went  away  again. 

'*  Now,  Mrs.  Snagsby,  the  only  amends  you  can  make," 
said  Mr.  Bucket,  rapidly  glancing  at  it,  'Ms  to  let  me 
speak  a  word  to  this  young  lady  in  private  here.  And  if 
you  know  of  any  help  that  you  can  give  to  that  gentle- 
man in  the  next  Idtchcn  there,  or  can  think  of  any  ono 


78  WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


thing  that's  likelier  than  another  ':o  bring  the  girl  rounds 
do  your  swiftest  and  best !  "    In  an  instant  she  was  gone, 
and  he  had  shut  the  door.     Now,  my  dear,  you're  steady, 
and  quite  sure  of  yourself  ?  " 
Quite,'*  said  I. 
*'  Whose  writing  is  that  ?  " 

It  was  my  mother's.  A  pencil -writing,  on  a  crushed 
cxnd  torn  piece  of  paper,  blotted  with  wet.  Folded  rough- 
ly like  a  letter,  and  directed  to  me  at  my  Guardian's. 

You  know  the  hand,"  he  said  ;  and  if  you  are  firm 
enough  to  read  it  to  me,  do  !  But  be  particular  to  a  word.' 

It  had  been  written  in  portions,  at  different  times. 
I  read  what  follows  : 

I  came  to  the  cottage  with  two  objects.  First,  to  see  the  dear 
one,  if  I  could,  once  more— but  only  to  see  her— not  to  speak  to  her, 
or  let  her  know  that  I  was  near.  The  other  object,  to  elude  pursuit, 
and  to  be  lost.  Do  not  blame  the  mother  for  her  share.  The  assist 
ance  that  she  rendered  me,  she  rendered  on  my  strongest  assurance 
that  it  was  for  the  dear  one's  good.  You  remember  her  dead  child. 
The  men's  consent  I  bought,  but  her  help  was  freely  given." 

*  I  came.*    That  was  written,"  said  my  companion, 
when  she  rested  there.    It  bears  out  what  I  made  of  it 
I  was  right." 
The  next  was  written  at  another  time. 

"  I  have  wandered  a  long  distance,  and  for  many  hours,  and  I  know 
that  I  must  soon  die.  These  streets  !  I  have  no  purpose  but  to  die. 
When  I  left,  I  had  a  worse  ;  but  1  am  saved  from  adding  that  guilt  tc 
the  rest.  Cold,  wet,  and  fatigue,  are  suihcient  causes  for  my  being 
found  dead :  but  I  shall  die  of  others,  though  I  suffer  from  these.  R 
was  right  that  all  that  had  sustained  me  should  give  way  at  once,  and 
that  I  should  die  of  terror  and  my  conscience." 

"  Take  courage,"  said  Mr.  Bucket.  "  There's  only  a 
few  words  more. " 

Those,  too,  were  written  at  another  time.  To  all 
appearance,  almost  in  the  dark. 

I  have  done  all  I  could  to  be  lost.  I  shall  be  soon  forgotten  bo, 
and  shall  disgrace  him  least.  I  have  nothing  about  me  by  which  I 
can  be  recognized.  This  paper  I  part  with  now.  The  place  where 
I  shall  lie  down,  if  I  can  yet  get  so  far,  has  been  often  m  my  mind. 
Farewell.  Forgive." 

Mr.  Bucket,  supporting  me  with  his  arm,  lowered  me 
gently  into  my  chair.  Cheer  up  !  Don't  think  me 
hard  with  you,  my  dear,  but,  as  soon  as  ever  you  feel 
equal  to  it,  get  your  shoes  on  and  be  ready." 

I  did  as  he  required  ;  but  I  was  left  there  a  long  time, 
praying  for  my  unhappy  mother.  They  were  all  occupied 
with  the  poor  girl,  and  I  heard  Mr.  Woodcourt  directing 
them,  and  speaking  to  her  often.  At  length  he  came  in 
with  Mr.  Bucket ;  and  said  that  as  it  was  important  to 


BLEAK  noiTSE. 


79 


address  her  gently,  lie  thought  it  best  that  I  should  ask 
her  for  whatever  information  we  desired  to  obtain.  There 
waS^  no  doubt  that  she  could  now  reply  to  questions,  if 
she  were  soothed,  and  not  alarmed.  The  questions,  Mr. 
Bucket  said,  were  how  she  came  by  the  letter,  what  passed 
between  her  and  the  person  who  gave  her  the  letter,  and 
wbere  the  person  went.  Holding  my  mind  as  steadily 
as  I  could  to  these  points,  I  went  into  the  next  room  witn 
them.  Mr.  Woodcourt  would  have  remained  outside, 
but  at  my  solicitation  went  in  with  us. 

The  poor  girl  was  sitting  on  the  floor  where  they  had 
laid  her  down.  They  stood  around  her  though  at  a  little 
distance,  that  she  might  have  air.  She  was  hot  pretty, 
and  looked  weak  and  poor  ;  but  she  had  a  plaintive  and 
a  good  face,  though  it  was  still  a  little  wild.  I  kneeled 
on  the  ground  beside  her,  and  put  her  poor  head  on  my 
shoulder  ;  whereupon  she  drew  her  arm  round  my  neck, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

**  My  poor  girl,"  said  I,  laying  my  face  against  her 
forehead  ;  for  indeed  I  was  crying  too,  and  trembling  ; 
**it  seems  cruel  to  trouble  you  now,  but  more  depends 
on  our  knowing  something  about  this  letter,  than  1  couM 
tell  you  in  an  hour." 

She  began  piteously  declaring  that  she  didn't  mean  any 
harm,  she  didn't  mean  any  harm,  Mrs.  Snagsby. 

We  are  all  sure  of  that,"  said  I.  But  pray  tell  me 
how  you  got  it." 

Yes,  dear  lady,  I  will,  and  tell  you  true.  Til  tell 
true,  indeed,  Mrs.  Snagsby." 

I  am  sure  of  that,"  said  I.       And  how  was  it  ?  " 

"  I  had  been  out  on  an  errand,  dear  lady — long  after  it 
was  dark — quite  late  ;  and  when  I  came  home,  I  founds 
common-looking  person,  all  wet  and  muddy,  looking  up 
at  our  house.  When  she  saw  me  coming  in  at  the  door, 
she  called  me  back,  and  said  did  I  live  here  ?  and  I  said 
yes,  and  she  said  she  knew  only  one  or  two  places  about 
here,  but  had  lost  her  way,  and  couldn't  find  them.  O 
what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  !  They  won't  believe 
me  I  She  didn't  say  any  harm  to  me,  and  I  didn't  say 
any  harm  to  her,  indeed,'  Mrs.  Snagsby  !  " 

It  was  necessary  for  her  mistress  to  comfort  her  ; 
which  she  did,  I  must  say,  with  a  good  deal  of  contri- 
tion ;  before  she  could  be  got  beyond  this. 
She  could  not  find  those  places,"  said  I. 

"No!"  cried  the  girl,  shaking  her  head.  *'No/ 
Couldn't  find  them.  And  she  was  so  faint,  and  lamo, 
and  miserable,  O  no  wretched  5  that  if  you  had  seen  her, 
Mr.  Snagsby,  you'd  have  given  her  half-a-crown,  I 
know  I " 

"  Well,  Ouster,  my  girl,"  said  he,  at  first  not  know- 
ing what  to  say.       I  hope  I  should." 


80 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


And  yet  she  was  so  well  spoken,'*  said  the  girl,  look- 
ing at  me  with  wide-open  eyes,  that  it  made  a  person's 
heart  bleed.  And  so  she  said  to  me,  did  I  know  the  way 
to  the  burying-ground  ?  And  I  asked  her  which  bury- 
ing-ground  ?  And  she  said  the  poor  burying-ground. 
And  I  told  her  I  had  been  a  poor  child  myself,  and  it  was 
according  to  parishes.  But  she  said  she  meant  a  poor 
burying-ground  not  very  far  fiom  here,  where  there  was 
an  archway,  and  a  step,  and  an  iron  gate." 

As  I  watched  her  face,  and  soothed  her  to  go  on,  I  saw 
that  Mr.  Bucket  received  this  with  a  look  which  I  could 
not  separate  from  one  of  alarm. 

O  dear,  dear  !  '*  cried  the  girl,  pressing  her  hair  back 
with  her  hands,  "  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  !  She 
meant  the  burying-ground  where  the  man  was  buried 
that  took  the  sleeping  stuif — that  you  came  home  and 
told  us  of,  Mr.  Snagsby — that  frightened  me  so,  Mrs. 
Snagsby.    O  I  am  frightened  again.    Hold  me  1 '' 

"You  are  so  much  better  now,"  said  I.  Pray,  pray 
tell  me  more." 

''Yes  I  will,  yes  I  will  !  But  don't  be  angry  with  me, 
that's  a  dear  lady,  because  I  have  been  so  ill." 

Angry  with  her,  poor  soul  ! 

*'  There,  now  I  will,  now  I  will.  So  she  said,  could  I 
tell  her  how  to  find  it^  and  I  said  yes,  and  I  told  her  ;  and 
she  looked  at  me  with  eyes  like  almost  as  if  she  was  blind, 
and  herself  all  waving  back.  And  so  she  took  out  the 
letter,  and  showed  it  me,  and  said  if  she  w^as  to  put  that 
in  the  post-office,  it  would  be  rubbed  out  and  not  minded 
and  never  sent  ;  and  would  I  take  it  from  her,  and  send 
it,  and  the  messenger  would  be  paid  at  the  house  ?  And 
so  I  said  yes,  if  it  was  no  harm,  and  she  said  no — no 
harm.  And  so  I  took  it  from  her,  and  she  said  she  had 
nothing  to  give  me,  and  I  said  I  was  poor  myself  and 
consequently  wanted  nothing.  And  so  she  said  God 
bless  you  !  and  went." 

''And  did  she  go—?" 

"  Yes,"  cried  the  girl,  anticipating  the  inquiry,  "  yes  I 
she  went  the  way  I  had  shown  her.  Then  I  came  in, 
and  Mrs.  Snagsby  came  behind  me  from  somewhere,  and 
laid  hold  of  me,  and  I  was  frightened." 

Mr.  Woodcourt  took  her  kindly  from  me.  Mr.  Bucket 
wrapped  me  up,  and  immediately  we  were  in  the  street. 
Mr.  Woodpourt  hesitated,  but  I  said,  "  Don't  leave  me 
now! "and  Mr.  Bucket  added,  "You'll  be  better  with 
us,  we  may  want  you  ;  don't  lose  time  ! " 

I  have  the  most  confused  impressions  of  that  walk.  I 
recollect  that  it  was  neither  night  nor  day  ;  that  morning 
was  dawning,  but  the  street  lamps  were  not  yet  put  out ; 
that  the  sleet  was  still  falling,  and  that  all  the  ways 
were  deep  with  it.    I  recollect  a  few  chilled  people  pass- 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


81 


ing  in  the  streets.  I  recollect  the  wet  housetops,  the 
clogged  and  bursting  gutters  and  water-spouts,  the? 
mounds  of  blackened  ice  and  snow  over  which  we  passed, 
the  narrowness  of  the  courts  by  which  we  went.  At 
the  same  time  I  remember  that  the  poor  girl  seemed  to 
be  yet  telling  her  story  audibly  and  plainly  in  my  hear- 
ing ;  that  I  could  feel  her  resting  on  my  arm  ;  that  the 
stained  house  fronts  put  on  human  shapes  and  looked  at 
me  ;  that  great  water  gates  seemed  to  be  opening  and 
closing  in  my  head,  or  in  the  air  ;  and  that  the  unreal 
things  were  more  substantial  than  the  real. 

At  last  we  stood  under  a  dark  and  miserable  covered 
way,  where  one  lamp  was  burning  over  an  iron  gate,  and 
where  the  morning  faintly  struggled  in.  The  gate  was 
closed.  Beyond  it,  was  a  burial-ground — a  dreadful 
spot  in  which  tlie  night  was  very  slowly  stirring ;  but 
where  I  could  dimly  see  heaps  of  dishonoured  graves 
and  stones,  hemmed  in  by  filthy  houses,  with  a  few  dull 
lights  in  their  windows,  and  on  whose  walls  a  thick  hu- 
midity broke  out  like  a  disease.  On  the  step  at  the  gate, 
drenched  in  the  fearful  wet  of  such  a  place,  which  oozed 
and  splashed  down  everywhere,  I  saw,  with  a  cry  of 
pity  and  horror,  a  woman  lying — Jenny,  the  mother  of 
the  dead  child. 

I  ran  forward,  but  they  stopped"  me,  and  Mr.  Wood- 
court  entreated  me  with  the  greatest  earnestness,  even 
with  tears,  before  I  went  up  to  the  figure,  to  listen  for 
an  instant  to  what  Mr.  Bucket  said.  I  did  so,  as  I 
thought.    I  did  so,  as  I  am  sure. 

*'Miss  Summerson,  you'll  understand  me,  if  you  think 
a  moment.    They  changed  clothes  at  the  cottage.'' 

They  changed  clothes  at  the  cottage.  I  could  repeat 
the  words  in  my  mind,  and  I  knew  what  they  meant  of 
themselves  ;  but  I  attached  no  meaning  to  them  in  any 
other  connection. 

**  And  one  returned,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  "  and  one  went 
on.  And  the  one  that  went  on,  only  went  on  a  certain 
way  agreed  upon  to  deceive,  and  then  turned  across 
country,  and  went  home.    Think  a  moment ! " 

I  could  repeat  this  in  my  m^d  too,  but  I  had  not  the 
least  idea  what  it  meant.  I  saw  before  me,  lying  on 
the  step,  the  mother  of  the  dead  child.  She  lay  there, 
with  one  arm  creeping  round  a  bar  of  the  iron  gate,  and 
seeming  to  embrace  it.  She  lay  there,  who  had'so  lately 
spoken  to  my  mother.  She  lay  there,  a  distressed,  un- 
sheltered, senseless  creature.  She  who  had  brought  my 
mother's  letter,  who  could  give  me  the  only  clue  to 
where  my  mother  was  ;  she  who  was  to  guide  iis  to  res- 
cue and  save  her  whom  we  had  sought  so  far,  who  had 
come  to  this  condition  by  some  means  connected  with 
my  mother  that  I  could  not  follow,  and  might  be  passing 


82  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


beyond  our  reach  and  help  at  that  moment ;  she  lai 
there,  and  they  stopped  me  !  I  saw,  but  did  not  comj 
prehend,  the  solemn  and  compassionate  look  in  Mr. 
Woodcourt's  face.  I  saw,  but  did  not  comprehend,  his 
touching  the  other  on  the  breast  to  keep  him  back.  1 
saw  him  stand  uncovered  in  the  bitter  air,  with  a  rever- 
ence for  something.  But  my  understanding  for  all  this 
was  gone. 

I  even  heard  it  said  between  them : 
Shall  she  go?*' 

*'  She  had  better  go.  Her  hands  should  be  the  first  to 
touch  her.    They  have  a  higher  right  than  ours.'* 

I  passed  on  to  the  gate,  and  stooped  down.  I  lifted 
the  heavy  head,  put  the  long  dank  hair  aside,  and  turned 
the  face.    And  it  was  my  mother,  cold  and  dead. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

Perspective. 

I  PROCEED  to  other  passages  of  my  narrative.  From 
the  goodness  of  all  about  me,  I  derived  such  consolation 
as  I  can  never  think'of  unmoved.  I  have  already  said 
so  much  of  myself,  and  so  much  still  remains,  that  I  will 
not  dwell  upon  my  sorrow.  I  had  an  illness,  but  it  was 
not  a  long  one  ;  and  I  would  avoid  even  this  mention 
of  it,  if  I  could  quite  keep  down  the  recollection  of  their 
sympathy. 

I  proceed  to  other  passages  of  my  narrative. 

During  the  time  of  my  illness,  we  were  still  in  London, 
where  Mrs.  Woodcourt  had  come,  on  my  Guardian's  in- 
vitation, to  stay  with  us.  When  my  Guardian  thought 
me  well  and  cheerful  enough  to  talk  with  him  in  our 
old  way — though  I  could  have  done  that  sooner,  if  he 
would  have  believed  me — I  resumed  my  work,  and  my 
chair  beside  his.  He  had  appointed  the  time  himself, 
and  we  were  alone. 

**  Dame  Trot,"  said  he,  receiving  me  with  a  kiss, 
**  welcome  to  the  Growlery  again,  my  dear.  I  have  a 
scheme  to  develop,  little  woman.  I  purpose  to  remain 
here,  perhaps  for  six  months,  perhaps  for  a  longer  time 
— as  it  may  be.  Quite  to  settle  here  for  a  while,  in 
short." 

"  And  in  the  meanwhile  leave  Bleak  House  ?"  said  1. 

"Aye,  my  dear?  Bleak  House,"  he  returned,  "mus 
learn  to  take  care  of  itself." 

I  thought  his  tone  sounded  sorrowful ;  but,  looking 
at  him,  I  saw  his  kind  face  lighted  up  by  its  pleasantest 
smile. 


BLEAK  HOUSE 


88 


"Bleak  House,"  he  repeated;  and  his  tone  did  not 
sound  sorrowful,  I  found,  "  must  learn  to  take  care  of 
itself.  It  is  a  lon^  way  from  Ada,  my  dear,  and  Ada 
stands  much  in  need  of  you.** 

"  It  is  like  you,  Guardian,"  said  I,  to  have  been  tak- 
ing that  into  consideration,  for  a  happy  surprise  to  both 
of  us. " 

"Not  so  disinterested  either,  my  dear,  if  you  mean  to 
extol  mo  for  that  virtue  ;  since,  if  you  were  generally 
on  the  road,  you  could  be  seldom  with  me.  And  besides, 
I  wish  to  hear  as  much  and  as  often  of  Ada  as  I  can,  in 
this  condition  of  estrangement  from  poor  Rick.  Not  of 
her  alone,  but  of  him  too,  poor  fellow." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Wood  court,  this  morning.  Guard- 
ian ?  " 

I  see  Mr.  Woodcourt  every  morning.  Dame  Durden," 

*'  Does  he  still  say  the  same  of  Richard  ?  " 

"Just  the  same.  He  knows  of  no  direct  bodily  illness 
that  he  has  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  believes  that  he  has 
none.    Yet  he  is  not  easy  about  him  ;  who  can  be  ?  " 

My  dear  girl  had  been  to  see  us  lately,  every  day  ; 
sometimes  twice  in  a  day.  But  we  had  foreseen,  all  along, 
that  this  would  only  last  until  I  was  quite  myself.  We 
knew  full  well  that  her  fervent  heart  was  as  full  of  af- 
fection and  gratitude  towards  her  cousin  John  as  it  had 
ever  been,  and  we  acquitted  Richard  of  laying  any 
injunctions  upon  her  to  stay  away  ;  but  we  knew  on  the 
other  hand  that  she  felt  it  a  part  of  her  duty  to  him,  to 
be  sparing  of  her  visits  at  our  house.  My  Guardian^s 
delicacy  had  soon  perceived  this,  and  had  tried  to  con- 
vey to  her  that  he  thought  she  was  right. 

"  Dear,  unfortunate,  mistaken  Richard,"  said  1 
"  When  will  he  awake  from  his  delusion  !  " 

**  He  is  not  in  the  way  to  do  so  now,  my  dear,"  re- 
plied my  Guardian.  ''The  more  he  suffers,  the  more 
averse  he  will  be  to  me  :  having  made  me  the  principal 
representative  of  the  great  occasion  of  his  suffering." 

I  could  not  help  adding,  '*  So  unreasonably  ! " 

"Ah,  Dame  Trot,  Dame  Trot!"  returned  my  Guar> 
dian,  "  what  shall  we  find  reasonable  in  Jarndyce  and 
Jarndyce  !  Unreason  and  injustice  at  the  top,  unreason 
and  injustice  at  the  heart  and  at  the  bottom,  unreason 
and  injustice  from  beginning  to  end — if  it  ever  has  an 
end — how  should  poor  Rick,  always  hovering  near  it, 
pluck  reason  out  of  it  ?  He  no  more  gathers  grapes 
from  thorns,  or  figs  from  thistles,  than  older  men  did, 
in  old  times." 

His  gentleness  and  consideration  for  Richard,  when- 
ever we  spoke  of  him,  touched  me  so,  that  I  was  always 
silent  on  this  subject  very  soon. 

"  I  suppose  the  Liord  Chancellor,  and  the  Vice  Chan- 


84 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


cellors,  and  the  whole  Chancery  battery  of  great  guns, 
would  be  infinitely  astonished  by  such  unreason  and  in- 
justice in  one  of  their  suitors/'  pursued  my  Guardian. 
"  When  those  learned  gentlemen  begin  to  raise  moss- 
roses  from  the  powder  they  sow  in  their  wigs,  I  shall 
begin  to  be  astonished  too  ! 

He  checked  himself  in  glancing  towards  the  window 
to  look  where  the  wind  was,  and  leaned  on  the  back  of 
my  chair  instead. 

Well,  well,  little  woman  !  Togo  on,  my  dear.  This 
rock  we  must  leave  to  time,  chance,  and  hopeful  cir- 
cumstance. We  must  not  shipwreck  Ada  upon  it.  She 
cannot  afford,  and  he  cannot  afford,  the  remotest  chance 
of  another  separation  from  a  friend.  Therefore,  I  have 
particularly  begged  of  Woodcourt,  and  I  now  particu- 
larly beg  of  you,  my  dear,  not  to  move  this  subject  with 
Rick.  Let  it  rest.  Next  week,  next  month,  next  year, 
sooner  or  later,  he  will  see  me  with  clearer  eyes.  I  can 
wait.'' 

But  I  had  already  discussed  it  with  him,  I  confessed  ; 
and  so,  I  thought,  had  Mr.  Woodcourt. 

So  he  tells  me,"  returned  my  Guardian.  "  Very 
good.  He  has  made  his  protest,  and  Dame  Durden  has 
made  hers,  and  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  about 
it.  Now,  I  come  to  Mrs.  Woodcourt.  How  do  you  like 
her,  my  dear  ?  '* 

In  answer  to  this  question,  which  was  oddly  abrupt,  I 
said  I  liked  her  very  much,  and  thought  she  was  more 
agreeable  than  she  used  to  be. 

"I  think  so  too,''  said  my  Guardian.  Less  pedigree  ? 
Not  so  much  of  Morgan-ap — what's  his  name  ?  " 

That  was  what  I  meant,  I  acknowledged  ;  though  he 
was  a  very  harmless  person,  even  when  we  had  had  more 
of  him. 

"Still,  upon  the  whole,  he  is  as  well  in  his  native 
mountains,"  said  my  Guardian.  I  agree  with  you. 
Then,  little  woman,  can  I  do  better  for  a  time  than  re- 
':ain  Mrs.  Woodcourt  here  ?  " 

No.    And  yet — 

My  Guardian  looked  at  me,  waiting  for  what  I  had  t© 
say. 

I  had  nothing  to  say.  At  least  I  had  nothing  in  my 
mind  that  I  could  say.  I  had  an  undefined  impression 
that  it  might  have  been  better  if  we  had  had  some  other 
inmate,  but  I  could  hardly  have  explained  why,  even  to 
myself.    Or,  if  to  myself,  certainly  not      anybody  else. 

You  see,"  said  my  Guardian,  our  neighbourhood  is 
in  Woodcourt's  way,  and  he  can  come  here  to  see  her  as 
often  as  he  likes,  which  is  agreeable  to  them  both  ;  and 
she  is  familiar  to  us,  and  fond  of  you. 

Yes.    That  was  undeniable.    I  had  nothing  to  say 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


85 


against  it.  I  could  not  have  suggested  a  better  arrange- 
ment ;  but  I  was  not  quite  easy  in  my  mind.  Esther/ 
Esther,  why  not  ?   Esther,  think  I 

**  It  is  a  very  good  plan  indeed,  dear  Guardian,  and  we 
could  not  do  better." 

'*Sure,  little  woman?" 

Quite  sure.  I  had  had  a  moment's  time  to  think, 
since  I  had  urged  that  duty  on  myself,  and  I  was  quite 
sure. 

**  Good,"  said  my  Guardian.  It  shall  be  done.  Car- 
ried unanimouslyo " 

"Carried  unanimously,"  I  repeated,  going  on  with  my 
work. 

It  was  a  cover  for  his  book-table  that  I  happened  to  be 
ornamenting.  It  had  been  laid  by  on  the  night  preced- 
ing my  sad  journey,  and  never  resumed.  I  showed  it  to 
him  now,  and  he  admired  it  highly.  After  I  had  ex- 
plained the  pattern  to  him,  and  all  the  great  effects  that 
were  to  come  out  by-and-by,  I  thought  I  would  go  back 
to  our  last  theme. 

**  You  said  dear  Guardian,  when  we  spoke  of  Mr. 
Woodcourt  before  Ada  loft  us,  that  you  thought  he 
would  give  a  long  trial  to  another  country.  Have  you 
been  advising  him  since  ?  " 

Yes,  little  woman  ;  pretty  often." 

"  Has  he  decided  to  do  so  ?  " 

**  I  rather  think  not." 

*'  Some  other  prospect  has  opened  to  him,  perhaps?" 
said  I. 

Why — yes — perhaps,"  returned  my  Guardian,  begin, 
ning  his  answer  in  a  very  deliberate  manner.  About 
half  a  year  hence  or  so,  there  is  a  medical  attendant  for 
the  poor  to  be  appointed  at  a  certain  place  in  Yorkshire. 
It  is  a  thriving  place,  pleasantly  situate  ;  streams  and 
streets,  town  and  country,  mill  and  moor ;  and  seems  to 
present  an  opening  for  such  a  man.  I  mean,  a  man 
whose  hopes  and  aims  may  sometimes  lie  (as  most  men's 
sometimes  do,  I  dare  say)  above  the  ordinary  level,  but 
to  whom  the  ordinary  level  will  be  high  enough  after 
all,  if  it  should  prove  to  be  a  way  of  usefulness  and  good 
service  leading  to  no  other.  All  generous  spirits  are 
ambitious,  I  suppose  ;  but  the  ambition  that  calmly 
trusts  itself  to  such  a  road,  instead  of  spasmodically  try- 
ing to  fly  over  it,  is  of  the  kind  I  care  for.  It  is  Wood- 
court's  kind." 

"  And  will  he  get  this  appointment?"  I  asked. 
Why,  little  woman,"  returned  my  Guardian,  smil- 
ing, ''not  being  an  oracle,  I  cannot  confidently  say  ;  but 
I  think  so.  His  reputation  stands  very  high  ;  there 
were  people  from  that  part  of  the  country  in  the  ship- 
wreck ;  and,  strange  to  say,  I  believe  the  best  man  has 


86 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  best  chance.  You  must  not  suppose  it  to  be  a  fine 
endowment.  It  is  a  very,  very  commonplace  affair,  my 
dear  ;  an  appointment  to  a  great  amount  of  work  and  a 
small  amount  of  pay  ;  but  better  things  will  gather  about 
it,  it  may  be  fairly  hoped." 

The  poor  of  that  place  will  have  reason  to  bless  the 
choice,  if  it  falls  on  Mr.  Woodcourt,  Guardian." 

You  are  right,  little  woman  ;  that  I  am  sure  they 
will." 

We  said  no  more  about  it,  nor  did  he  say  a  word  about 
the  future  of  Bleak  House.  But  it  was  the  first  time  I 
had  taken  my  seat  at  his  side  in  my  mourning  dress,  and 
that  accounted  for  it,  I  considered. 

I  now  began  to  visit  my  dear  girl  every  day,  in  the 
dull  dark  corner  where  she  lived.  The  morning  was  my 
usual  time  ;  but  whenever  I  found  I  had  an  hour  or  so 
to  spare,  I  put  on  my  bonnet  and  bustled  off  to  Chanceir 
Lane.  They  were  both  so  glad  to  see  me  at  all  houif 
and  used  to  brighten  up  so  when  they  heard  me  opening 
the  door  and  coming  in  (being  quite  at  home,  I  never 
knocked),  that  I  had  no  fear  of  becoming  troublesome 
just  yet. 

On  these  occasions  I  frequently  found  Richard  absent. 
At  other  times  he  would  be  writing,  or  reading  papers  in 
the  Cause,  at  that  table  of  his,  so  covered  with  papers, 
which  was  never  disturbed.  Sometimes  I  would  come 
upon  him,  lingering  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Vholes's  office. 
Sometimes  I  would  meet  him  in  the  neighbourhood, 
lounging  about,  and  biting  his  nails.  I  often  met  him 
wandering  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  near  the  place  where  I  had 
first  seen  him,  O  how  different,  how  different  ! 

That  the  money  Ada  brought  him  was  melting  away 
with  the  candles  I  used  to  see  burning  after  dark  in  Mr. 
Vholes's  office,  I  knew  very  well.  It  was  not  a  large 
amount  in  the  beginning  ;  he  had  married  in  debt ;  and 
I  could  not  fail  to  understand,  by  this  time,  what  was 
meant  by  Mr.  Vholes's  shoulder  being  at  the  wheel — as 
I  still  heard  it  was.  My  dear  made  the  best  of  house- 
keepers, and  tried  hard  to  save  ;  but  I  knew  that  they 
were  getting  poorer  and  poorer  every  day. 

She  shone  in  the  miserable  corner  like  a  beautiful 
star.  She  adorned  and  graced  it  so,  that  it  became  an- 
other place.  Paler  than  she  had  been  at  home,  and  a 
little  quieter  than  I  had  thought  natural  when  she  was 
yet  so  cheerful  and  hopeful,  her  face  was  so  unshadowed, 
that  I  half  believed  she  was  blinded  by  her  love  for 
Richard  to  his  ruinous  career. 

I  went  one  day  to  dine  with  them,  while  I  was  under 
this  impression.  As  I  turned  into  Symond's  Inn,  I  met 
little  Miss  Flite  coming  out.  She  had  been  to  make  a 
stately  call  upon  the  wards  in  Jarndyce.  as  she  still  called 


PLEAK  HOUSE. 


87 


them,  and  had  derived  the  highest  gratification  from  that 
ceremony.  Ada  had  already  told  me  that  she  called 
every  Monday  at  five  o'clock,  w^ith  one  little  extra  white 
bow  in  her  bonnet,  which  never  appeared  there  at  any 
other  time,  and  with  her  largest  reticule  of  documents 
on  her  arm. 

*My  dear!"  she  began.  **So  delighted!  How  do 
you  do  (  So  glad  to  see  you.  And  are  you  going  to  visit 
our  interesting  Jarndyce  wards  ?  To  be  sure  I  Our 
beauty  is  at  home,  my  dear,  and  will  be  charmed  to  see 
you." 

**  Then  Richard  has  not  come  in  yet?"  said  I,  '* I  am 
glad  of  that,  for  I  was  afraid  of  being  a  little  late." 

**  No  he  is  not  come  in,"  returned  Miss  Flite.  '*  He 
has  had  a  long  day  in  court.  I  left  him  there,  with 
Vholes.  You  don't  like  Vholes,  I  hope?  Don  t  like 
Vholes.    Dangerous  man  I " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  see  Richard  oftener  than  ever  now  ?  " 
said  I. 

"My  dearest,"  returned  Miss  Flite,  "daily  and  hourly. 
You  know  what  I  told  you  of  the  attraction  on  the  Chan- 
cellor's table  ?  My  dear,  next  to  myself  he  is  the  most 
constant  suitor  in  court.  He  begins  quite  to  amuse  our 
little  party.    Ve-ry  friendly  little  party,  are  we  not?" 

It  was  miserable  to  hear  this  from  her  poor  mad  lips, 
though  it  was  no  surprise. 

"In  short,  my  valued  friend,"  pursued  Miss  Flite,  ad- 
vancing her  lips  to  my  ear,  with  an  air  of  equal  patron- 
age and  mystery,  "  I  must  tell  you  a  secret.  I  have  made 
him  my  executor.  Nominated,  constituted,  and  appoint- 
ed him.    In  my  will.  Ye-es." 

"Indeed?"  said  I. 

"  Ye-es,"  repeated  Miss  Flite,  in  her  most  genteel  ac- 
cents, "my  executor,  administrator,  and  assign.  (Our 
Chancery  phrases,  my  love.)  I  have  reflected  that  if  I 
should  wear  out,  he  will  be  able  to  watch  that  judgment. 
Being  so  very  regular  in  his  attendance." 

It  made  me  sigh  to  think  of  him. 

"  I  did  at  one  time  mean,"  said  Miss  Flite,  echoing  the 
sigh,  "to  nominate,  constitute,  and  appoint  poor  Gridley. 
Also  very  regular,  my  charming  girl.  I  assure  you,  most 
exemplary  I  But  he  wore  out,  poor  man,  so  I  have  ap- 
pointed his  successor.  Don't  mention  it  This  is  in 
confidence." 

She  carefully  opened  her  reticule  a  little  way,  and 
showed  me  a  folded  piece  of  paper  inside,  as  the  appoint- 
ment of  which  she  spoke. 

"  Another  secret,  my  dear.  I  have  added  to  my  col- 
lection  of  birds." 

"Really,  Miss  Flite  ?"  said  I,  knowing  how  it  pleased 
her  to  have  her  confidence  received  with  an  appearance 
of  interest. 


88 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


She  nodded  several  times,  and  her  face  became  over 
cast  and  gloomy.  ''Two  more.  I  call  them  the  wards 
in  Jarndyce.  They  are  caged  up  with  all  the  others. 
With  Hope,  Joy,  Youth,  Peace,  Rest,  Life,  Dust,  Ashes, 
Waste,  Want,  Ruin,  Despair,  Madness,  Death,  Cunningf 
Folly,  Words,  Wigs,  Rags,  Sheepskin,  Plundef,  Prece' 
dent.  Jargon,  Gammon,  and  Spinach  ! " 

The  poor  soul  kissed  me,  with  the  most  troubled  look 
I  had  ever  seen  in  her  ;  and  went  her  way.  Her  manner 
of  running  over  the  names  of  her  birds,  as  if  she  were 
afraid  of  hearing  them  even  from  her  own  lips,  quite 
chilled  me. 

This  was  not  a  cheering  preparation  for  my  visit,  and  I 
could  have  dispensed  with  the  company  of  Mr.  Vholes, 
when  Richard  (who  arrived  within  a  minute  or  two  after 
me)  brought  him  to  share  our  dinner.  Although  it  was  a 
very  plain  one,  Ada  and  Richard  were  for  some  minutes 
both  out  of  the  room  together,helping  to  get  ready  what  w^ 
were  to  eat  and  drink.  Mr.  Vholes  took  that  opportunity 
of  holding  a  little  conversation  in  a  low  voice  with  me. 
He  came  to  the  window  where  I  was  sitting,  and  began 
upon  Symond's  Inn. 

'*  A  dull  place.  Miss  Summerson,  for  a  life  that  is  not 
an  official  one,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  smearing  the  glass  with 
his  black  glove,  to  make  it  clearer  for  me. 

"  There  is  not  much  to  see  here,"  said  I. 

*'Nor  to  hear,  miss,"  returned  Mr.  Vholes.  "A  little 
music  does  occasionally  stray  in  ;  but  we  are  not  musical 
in  the  law,  and  soon  eject  it.  I  hope  Mr.  Jarndyce  is  as 
well  as  his  friends  could  wish  him?" 

I  thanked  Mr.  Vholes,  and  said  he  was  quite  well. 

''I  have  not  the  pleasure  to  be  admitted  among  the 
number  of  his  friends  myself,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  ''and  I 
am  aware  that  the  gentlemen  of  our  profession  are  some- 
times regarded  in  such  quarters  with  an  unfavourable 
eye.  Our  plain  course,  however,  under  good  report  and 
evil  report,  and  all  kinds  of  prejudice,  (we  are  the  vic- 
tims of  prejudice)  is  to  have  everything  openly  carried 
on.  How  do  you  find  Mr.  C  looking,  Miss  Summer- 
son?" 

"  He  looks  very  ill.    Dreadfully  anxious." 
"  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

He  stood  behind  me,  with  his  long  black  figure  reach- 
ing nearly  to  the  ceiling  of  those  low  rooms  ;  feeling  the 
pimples  on  his  face  as  if  they  were  ornaments,  and 
speaking  inwardly  and  evenly  as  though  there  were  not 
a  human  passion  or  emotion  in  his  nature. 

"Mr.  Woodcourt  is  in  attendance  upon  Mr.  C,  I  be- 
lieve ?  "  he  resumed. 

"  Mr.  Woodcourt  is  his  disinterested  friend,"  1  an. 
Bwered. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


69 


"  But  I  mean  in  professional  attendance,  medical  at^ 
tendance." 

**  That  can  do  little  for  an  unhappy  mind,"  said  I. 
**  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

So  slow,  so  eager,  so  bloodless  and  gaunt,  I  felt  as  if 
Richard  were  wasting  away  beneath  the  eyes  of  this  ad- 
viser, and  there  were  something  of  the  Vampire  in  him. 

*'Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  very  slowly  rub- 
bing his  gloved  hands,  as  if,  to  his  cold  sense  of  touch, 
they  were  much  the  same  in  black  kid  or  out  of  it,  this 
was  an  ill-advised  marriage  of  Mr.  C's. " 

I  begged  he  would  excuse  me  for  discussing  it.  They 
had  been  engaged  when  they  were  both  very  young,  I 
told  him  (a  little  indignantly),  and  when  the  prospect 
before  them  was  much  ftiirer  and  brighter.  When 
Richard  had  not  yielded  himself  to  the  unhappy  influence 
which  now  darkened  his  life. 

Just  so,"  assented  Mr.  Vholes  again.  Still,  with  a 
view  to  everything  being  openly  carried  on,  I  will,  with 
your  permission.  Miss  Summerson,  observe  to  you  that  I 
consider  this  a  very  ill-advised  marriage,  indeed.  I  owe 
the  opinion,  not  only  to  Mr.  C's  connexions,  against 
whom  I  should  naturally  wish  to  protect  myself,  but 
also  to  my  own  reputation — dear  to  myself,  as  a  profes- 
sional man  aiming  to  keep  respectable  ;  dear  to  my  three 
girls  at  home,  for  whom  I  am  striving  to  realise  some 
little  independence  ;  dear,  I  will  even  say,  to  my  aged 
father,  whom  it  is  my  privilege  to  support." 

'*  It  would  become  a  very  dilferent  marriage,  a  much 
bappier  and  better  marriage,  another  marriage  alto- 
^ther,  Mr.  Vholes,"  said  I,  **if  Richard  were  persuaded 
to  turn  his  back  on  the  fatal  pursuit  in  which  you  are 
engaged  with  him." 

Mr.  Vholes,  with  a  noiseless  cough — or  rather  gasp — 
into  one  of  his  black  gloves,  inclined  his  head  as  if  he 
did  not  wholly  dispute  even  that. 

"Miss  Summerson,"  he  said,  ''it  maybe  so;  and  I 
freely  admit  that  the  young  lady  who  has  taken  Mr.  C's 
name  upon  herself  in  so  ill-advised  a  manner — you  will 
I  am  sure  not  quarrel  with  me  for  throwing  out  that  re- 
mark again,  as  a  duty  I  owe  to  Mr.  C's  connexions — is  a 
highly  genteel  young  lady.  Business  has  prevented  me 
from  mixing  much  with  general  society,  in  any  but  a  pro-' 
fessional  character ;  still  I  trust  I  am  competent  to  per- 
ceive that  she  is  a  highly  genteel  young  lady.  As  to 
beauty,  I  am  not  a  judge  of  that  myself,  and  I  never  did 
give  much  attention  to  it  from  a  boy  ;  but  I  dare  say  the 
young  lady  is  equally  eligible,  in  that  point  of  view. 
She  is  considered  so  (I  have  heard)  among  the  clerks  in 
the  Inn,  and  it  is  a  point  more  in  their  way  than  in  mine. 
In  reference  to  Mr,  C's  pursuit  of  his  interests — " 


90 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"O  I  His  interests,  Mr.  Vholes  \*' 
Pardon  me,"  returned  Mr.  Vholes,  going  on  in  exact- 
ly the  same  inward  and  dispassionate  manner.  *'Mr.  C 
takes  certain  interests  under  certain  wills  disputed  in  the 
suit.  It  is  a  term  we  use.  In  reference  to  Mr.  C's  pur- 
suit of  his  interests,  I  mentioned  to  you.  Miss  Summer- 
son,  the  first  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  in 
my  desire  that  everything  should  be  openly  carried  on — 
I  used  those  words,  for  I  happened  afterwards  to  note 
them  in  my  diary,  which  is  producible  at  any  time — I 
mentioned  to  you  that  Mr.  C  had  laid  down  the  principle 
of  watching  his  own  interests  ;  and  that  when  a  client  of 
mine  laid  down  a  principle  which  was  not  of  an  immoral 
(that  is  to  say,  unlawful)  nature,  it  devolved  upon  me  to 
carry  it  out.  I  Jiave  carried  it  out ;  I  do  carry  it  out.  But 
I  will  not  smooth  things  over,  to  any  connexion  of  Mr. 
C's,  on  any  account.  As  open  as  I  was  to  Mr.  Jarndyce, 
I  am  to  you.  I  regard  it  in  the  light  of  a  professional 
duty  to  be  so,  though  it  can  be  charged  to  no  one.  I 
openly  say,  unpalatable  as  it  may  be,  that  I  consider  Mr,. 
C's  affairs  in  a  very  bad  way,  that  I  consider  Mr.  C  him- 
self in  a  very  bad  way,  and  that  I  regard  this  as  an  ex- 
ceedingly ill-advised  marriage. — Am  I  here,  sir?  Yes,  I 
thank  you  ;  I  am  here,  Mr.  C,  and  enjoying  the  pleasure 
of  some  agreeable  conversation  with  Miss  Summerson, 
for  which  I  have  to  thank  you  very  much,  sir  ! " 

He  broke  off  thus,  in  answer  to  Richard,  who  addressed 
him  as  he  came  into  the  room.  By  this  time  I  too  well 
understood  Mr.  Vholes's  scrupulous  way  of  saving  him- 
self and  his  respectability,  not  to  feel  that  our  worst  fears 
did  but  keep  pace  with  his  client's  progress. 

We  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  I  had  an  opportunity  of 
observing  Richard,  anxiously.  I  was  not  disturbed  by 
Mr.  Vholes  (who  took  off  his  gloves  to  dine),  though  he 
sat  opposite  to  me  at  the  small  table  ;  for  I  doubt  if,  look- 
ing up  at  all,  he  once  removed  his  eyes  from  his  host's 
face.  I  found  Richard  thin  and  languid,  slovenly  in  his 
dress,  abstracted  in  his  manner,  forcing  his  spirits  now 
and  then,  and  at  other  intervals  relapsing  into  a  dull 
thoughtfulness.  About  his  large  bright  eyes  that  used 
to  be  so  merry,  there  was  a  wanness  and  a  restlessness 
that  changed  them  altogether.  I  cannot  use  the  expres- 
sion that  he  looked  old.  There  is  a  ruin  of  youth  which 
is  not  like  age  ;  and  into  such  a  ruin,  Richard's  youth 
and  youthful  beauty  had  all  fallen  away. 

He  ate  little,  and  seemed  indifferent  what  it  was ; 
showed  himself  to  be  much  more  impatient  than  he  used 
to  be  ;  and  was  quick,  even  with  Ada.  I  thought,  at 
first,  that  his  old  lighthearted  manner  was  all  gone  ;  but 
it  shone  out  of  him  sometimes,  as  I  had  occasionally 
known  little  momentary  glimpses  of  my  own  old  face  to 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


in 


look  out  upon  me  from  the  glass.  His  laugh  had  not 
quite  left  him  either  ;  but  it  was  like  the  echo  of  a  joy 
ful  sound,  and  that  is  always  sorrowful. 

Yet  he  was  as  glad  as  ever  in  his  old  affectionate  way, 
to  have  me  there  ;  and  we  talked  of  the  old  times  pleas- 
antly. These  did  not  appear  to  be  interesting  to  Mr. 
Vholes,  though  he  occasionally  made  a  gasp  which  I 
believe  was  his  smile.  He  rose  shortly  after  dinner,  and 
said  that  with  the  permission  of  the  ladies  ho  would  re- 
tire to  his  office. 

Always  devoted  to  business,  Vholes  !"  cried  Richard. 

"Yes,  Mr.  C,"  he  returned,  *'the  interests  of  clients 
are  nevei*  to  be  neglected,  sir.  They  are  paramount  in 
the  thoughts  of  a  professional  man  like  myself,  who 
wishes  to  preserve  a  good  name  among  his  fellow -practi- 
tioners and  society  at  large.  My  denying  myself  the 
pleasure  of  the  present  agreeable  conversation,  may 
not  be  wholly  irrespective  of  your  own  interests,  Mr. 
C." 

Richard  expressed  himself  quite  sure  of  that,  and 
lighted  Mr.  Vholes  out.  On  his  return  he  told  us,  more 
than  once,  that  Vholes  was  a  good  fellow,  a  safe  fellow, 

man  who  did  what  he  pretended  to  do,  a  very  good 
fellow,  indeed  !  He  was  so  defiant  about  it,  that  it 
struck  me  he  had  begun  to  doubt  Mr.  Vholes. 

Then  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  tired  out ;  and 
Ada  and  I  put  things  to  rights,  for  they  had  no  other 
servant  than  the  woman  who  attended  to  the  chambers. 
My  dear  girl  had  a  cottage  piano  there,  and  quietly  sat 
down  to  sing  some  of  Richard's  favourites  ;  the  lamp 
being  first  removed  into  the  next  room,  as  he  complained 
of  its  hurting  his  eyes. 

I  sat  between  them  at  my  dear  girl's  side,  and  felt 
very  melancholy  listening  to  her  sweet  voice.  I  think 
Richard  did  too  ;  I  think  he  darkened  the  room  for  that 
reason.  She  had  been  singing  some  time,  rising  between- 
whiles  to  bend  over  him  and  speak  to  him  ;  when  Mr. 
Woodcourt  came  in.  Then  he  sat  down  by  Richard  ; 
and  half  playfully,  half  earnestly,  quite  naturally  and 
easily,  found  out  how  he  felt,  and  where  he  had  been 
all  day.  Presently  he  proposed  to  accompany  him  in  a 
short  walk  on  one  of  the  bridges,  as  it  was  a  moonlight 
airy  night ;  and  Richard  readily  consenting,  they  went 
out  together. 

They  left  my  dear  girl  still  sitting  at  the  piano,  and  me 
still  sitting  beside  her.  When  they  were  gone  out,  I 
drew  my  arm  round  her  waist.  She  put  her  left  hand 
in  mine  (I  was  sitting  on  that  side),  but  kept  her  right 
upon  the  keys — going  over  and  over  them,  without  stnk- 
ing  any  note. 

''Esther,  my  dearest,"  she  said,  breaking  silence. 


92  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"  Richard  is  never  so  well,  and  I  am  never  so  easy  about 
him,  as  when  he  is  with  Allan  Woodcourt.  We  have  to 
thank  you  for  that." 

I  pointed  out  to  my  darling  how  this  could  scarcely  be, 
because  Mr.  Woodcourt  had  come  to  her  cousin  John's 
house,  and  had  known  us  all  there  ;  and  because  he  had 
always  liked  Richard,  and  Richard  had  always  liked 
him,  and — and  so  forth. 

"  All  true,"  said  Ada  ;  but  that  he  is  such  a  devoted 
friend  to  us,  we  owe  to  you." 

I  thought  it  best  to  let  my  dear  girl  have  her  way,  and 
to  say  no  more  about  it.  So  I  said  as  much.  I  said  it 
lightly,  because  I  felt  her  trembling. 

Esther,  my  dearest,  I  want  to  be  a  good  wife,  a  very, 
very  good  wife  indeed.    You  shall  teach  me." 

I  teach  !  I  said  no  more  ;  for  I  noticed  the  hand  that 
was  fluttering  over  the  keys,  and  I  knew  that  it  was 
not  I  who  ought  to  speak  ;  that  it  was  she  who  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  me. 

"  When  I  married  Richard,  I  was  not  insensible  to 
what  was  before  him.  I  had  been  perfectly  happy  for 
a  long  time  with  you,  and  I  had  never  known  any  trouble 
or  anxiety,  so  loved  and  cared  for  ;  but  I  understood  the 
danger  he  was  in,  dear  Esther." 
I  know,  I  know,  my  darling." 


When  we  were  married,  I  had  some  little  hope  that 
I  might  be  able  to  convince  him  of  his  mistake  ;  that  he 
might  come  to  regard  it  in  a  new  way  as  my  husband, 
and  not  pursue  it  all  the  more  desperately  for  my  sake 
— as  he  does.  But  if  I  had  not  had  that  hope,  I  would 
have  married  him  just  the  same,  Esther.  Just  the 
same  ! " 

In  the  momentary  firmness  of  the  hand  that  was  never 
still — a  firmness  inspired  by  the  utterance  of  these  last 
words,  and  dying  away  with  them — I  saw  the  confirma- 
tion of  her  earnest  tones. 

You  are  not  to  think,  my  dearest  Esther,  that  I  fail 
to  see  what  you  see,  and  fear  what  you  fear.  No  one 
can  understand  him  better  than  I  do.  The  greatest  wis-* 
dom  that  ever  lived  in  the  world  could  scarcely  know 
Richard  better  than  my  love  does." 

She  spoke  so  modestly  and  softly,  and  her  trembling 
hand  expressed  such  agitation,  as  it  moved  to  and  fro 
upon  the  silent  notes  !    My  dear,  dear  girl  ! 

"  I  see  him  at  his  worst,  every  day.  I  watch  him  in 
his  sleep.  I  know  every  change  of  his  face.  But  when 
I  married  Richard  I  was  quite  determined,  Esther,  if 
Heaven  would  help  me,  never  to  show  him  that  I  grieved 
for  what  he  did,  and  so  to  make  him  more  unhappy.  I 
want  him,  when  he  comes  home,  to  find  no  trouble  in  my 
face.    I  want  him,  when  he  looks  at  me,  to  see  what  he 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


93 


loved  in  me.  I  married  liim  to  do  this,  and  this  sup- 
ports me. " 

I  felt  her  trembling  more.  I  waited  for  what  was 
yet  to  come,  and  I  now  thought  I  began  to  know  what 
it  was. 

"  And  something  else  supports  me,  Esther." 

She  stopped  a  minute.  Stopped  speaking  only ;  her 
hand  was  still  in  motion. 

''I  look  forward  a  little  while,  and  I  don't  know  what 
great  aid  may  come  to  me.  When  Richard  turns  his 
eyes  upon  me  then,  there  may  be  something  lying  on  my 
breast  more  eloquent  than  I  have  been,  with  greater 
power  than  mine  to  show  him  his  true  course,  and  win 
him  back." 

Her  hand  stopped  now.  She  clasped  me  in  her  arms, 
and  I  clasped  her  in  mine. 

If  that  little  creature  should  fail  too,  Esther,  I  still 
look  forward.  I  look  forward  a  long  while,  through 
years  and  years,  and  think  that  then,  when  lam  growing 
old,  or  when  I  am  dead  perhaps,  a  beautiful  woman,  his 
daughter,  happily  married,  may  be  proud  of  him  and  a 
blessing  to  him.  Or  that  a  generous  brave  man,  as  hand- 
some as  he  used  to  be,  as  hopeful,  and  far  more  happy, 
may  walk  in  the  sunshine  with  him,  honouring  his  grey 
head,  and  saying  to  himself,  '  I  thank  God  this  is  my 
father  !  ruined  by  a  fatal  inheritance,  and  restored 
through  me  ! '  " 

O,  my  sweet  girl,  what  a  heart  was  that  which  beat  so 
fast  against  me  ! 

These  hopes  uphold  me,  my  dear  Esther,  and  I  know 
they  will.  Though  sometimes  even  they  depart  from 
me,  before  a  dread  that  arises  when  I  look  at  Richard." 

I  tried  to  cheer  my  darling,  and  asked  her  what  it 
was  ?    Sobbing  and  weeping,  she  replied  : 
That  he  may  not  live  to  see  his  child." 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

A  Discovert/. 

The  days  when  I  frequented  that  miserable  corner 
which  my  dear  girl  brightened,  can  never  fade  in  my  re- 
membrance. I  never  see  it,  and  I  never  wish  to  see  it, 
now  ;  I  have  been  there  only  once  since  ;  but  in  my 
memory  there  is  a  mournful  glory  shining  on  the  place, 
which  will  shine  forever. 

Not  a  day  passed,  without  my  going  there,  of  course. 
At  first  I  found  Mr.  Skimpole  there,  on  two  or  three  oc- 
casions, idly  playing  the  piano,  and  talking  in  his  usual 


94 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Tlvacious  strain.  Now,  besides  my  very  niucli  mistrust- 
ing the  probability  of  his  being  thure  without  making 
Bichard  poorer,  I  felt  as  if  there  were  something  in  his 
careless  gaiety,  too  inconsistent  with  what  I  knew  of  the 
depths  of  Ada's  life.  I  clearly  perceived,  too,  that  Ada 
shared  my  feelings.  I  therefore  resolved,  after  much 
thinking  of  it,  to  make  a  private  visit  to  Mr.  Skimpole, 
and  try  delicately  to  explain  myself.  My  dear  girl  was 
the  great  consideration  that  made  me  bold. 

I  set  off  one  morning,  accompanied  by  Charley,  for 
Somers  Town.  As  I  approached  the  house,  I  was  strongly 
inclined  to  turn  back,  for  1  felt  what  a  desperate  attempt 
it  was  to  make  an  impression  on  Mr.  Skimpole,  and  how 
extremely  likely  it  was  that  he  would  signally  defeat 
me.  However,  I  thought  that  being  there,  I  would  go 
through  with  it.  I  knocked  with  a  trembling  hand  at 
Mr.  Skimpole's  door — literally  with  a  hand,  for  the 
knocker  was  gone — and  after  a  long  parley  gained  ad- 
mission from  an  Irishwoman,  who  was  in  the  area  when 
I  knocked,  breaking  up  the  lid  of  a  water-bucket  with  a 
poker  to  light  the  fire  with. 

Mr.  Skimpole,  lying  on  the  sofa  m  his  room,  playing 
the  flute  a  little,  was  enchanted  to  see  me.  Now,  who 
should  receive  me,  he  asked  ?  Who  would  I  prefer  for 
mistress  of  the  ceremonies  ?  Would  I  have  his  Comedy 
daughter,  his  Beauty  daughter,  or  his  Sentiment  daugh- 
ter ?  Or  would  I  have  all  the  daughters  at  once,  in  a 
perfect  nosegay  ? 

I  replied,  half  defeated  already,  that  I  wished  to  speak 
to  himself  only,  if  he  would  give  me  leave. 

**  My  dear  Miss  Summerson,  most  joyfully  !  Of 
course,''  he  said,  bringing  his  chair  near  mine,  and 
breaking  into  his  fascinating  smile,  "  of  course  it's  not 
business.    Then  it's  pleasure  ! " 

I  said  it  certainly  was  not  business  that  I  came  upon, 
but  it  was  not  quite  a  pleasant  matter. 

**Then,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson,"  said  he,  with  the 
frankest  gaiety,  don't  allude  to  it.  Why  should  you 
allude  to  anything  that  is  not  a  pleasant  matter  ?.  /never 
do.  And  you  are  a  much  pleasanter  creature,  in  every 
point  of  view,  than  I.  You  are  perfectly  pleasant ;  I  am 
imperfectly  pleasant  ;  then,  if  I  never  allude  to  an  un- 
pleasant matter,  how  much  less  should  you  !  So,  that's 
disposed  of,  and  we  will  talk  of  something  else." 

Although  I  was  embarrassed,  I  took  courage  to  inti- 
mate that  I  still  wished  to  pursue  the  subject. 

'*  I  should  think  it  a  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  with 
his  airy  laugh,  if  I  thought  Miss  Summerson  capable 
of  making  one.    But  I  don't  !  " 

Mr.  Skimpole,"  said  I,  raising  my  eyes  to  his,  **  I 
have  so  often  heard  you  say  that  you  are  unacquainted 
with  the  common  affairs  of  life—" 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


95 


"Meaning  our  three  banking-house  friends,  L,  S,  and 
who's  the  junior  partner?  D?*'  said  Mr.  Skimpole, 
brightly.      Not  an  idea  of  them  I " 

« — That,  perhaps,"  I  went  on,  ''you  will  excuse  mj 
boldness  on  that  account.  I  think  you  ought  most  seri- 
ously to  know  that  Richard  is  poorer  than  he  was." 

"  Dear  me  1 "  said  Mr.  Skimpole.  "  So  am  I,  they  tell 
me." 

And  in  very  embarrassed  circumstances." 
*'  Parallel  case  exactly  1 "  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  with  a 
delighted  countenance. 

This  at  present  naturally  causes  Ada  much  secret 
anxiety  ;  and  as  I  think  she  is  less  anxious  when  no 
claims  are  made  upon  her  by  visitors,  and  as  Richard  has 
one  uneasiness  always  heavy  on  his  mind,  it  has  occurred 
to  me  to  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that — if  you  would — 
not—" 

I  was  coming  to  the  point  with  great  difficulty,  when 
he  took  me  by  both  hands,  and,  with  a  radiant  face  and 
in  the  liveliest  way,  anticipated  it. 

'•'Not  go  there?  Certainly  not,  my  dear  Miss  Sum- 
merson,  most  assuredly  not.  Why  should  I  go  there  ? 
When  I  go  anywhere,  I  go  for  pleasure.  I  don't  go 
anywhere  for  pain,  because  I  was  made  for  pleasure. 
Pain  comes  to  me  when  it  wants  me.  Now  I  have  had 
very  little  pleasure  at  our  dear  Richard's,  lately,  and 
your  practical  sagacity  demonstrates  why.  Our  young 
friends,  losing  the  youthful  poetry  which  was  once  so 
captivating  in  them,  begin  to  think,  '  this  is  a  man  who 
wants  pounds.'  So  I  am  ;  I  always  want  pounds  ;  not  for 
myself,  but  because  tradespeople  always  want  them  of 
me.  Next,  our  young  friends  begin  to  think,  becoming 
mercenary,  'this  is  the  man  who  had  pounds, — who  bor> 
rowed  them  ; '  which  I  did.  I  always  be?  ow  pounds. 
So  our  young  friends,  reduced  to  prose  (which  is  much 
to  be  regretted),  degenerate  in  their  power  of  imparting 
pleasure  to  me.  Why  should  I  go  to  see  them  therefore  ? 
Absurd 

Through  the  beaming  smile  with  which  he  regarded 
me,  as  he  reasoned  thus,  there  now  broke  forth  a  look  of 
disinterested  benevolence  quite  astonishing. 

"  Besides,"  he  said,  pursuing  his  argument,  in  his  tone 
of  light-hearted  conviction,  "if  I  don't  go  anywhere  for 
pain — which  would  be  a  perversion  of  the  intention  of 
my  being,  and  a  monstrous  thing  to  do — why  should  I  go 
anywhere  to  be  the  cause  of  pain  ?  If  I  went  to  see  our 
young  friends  in  their  present  ill-regulated  state  of  mind, 
I  should  give  them  pain.  The  associations  with  me 
would  be  disagreeable.  They  might  say,  *  this  is  the 
»fin  who  had  pounds,  and  who  can't  pay  pounds,'  which 
I  can't,  of  couirse  ;  nothing  could  be  more  out  of  the  ques- 


96 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tion  I  Then,  kindness  requires  that  T  shouldn't  go  near 
them — and  I  won*t." 

He  finished  by  genially  kissing  my  hand,  and  thanking 
me.  Nothing  but  Miss  Summer  son's  fine  tact,  he  said, 
would  have  found  this  out  for  him. 

I  was  much  disconcerted  ;  but  I  reflected  that  if  the 
main  point  were  gained,  it  mattered  little  how  strangely 
Sie  perverted  everything  leading  to  it.  I  had  determined 
to  rnention  something  else,  however,  and  I  thought  I  was 
fj£>t  to  be  put  off  in  that. 

'*  Mr.  Skimpole,"  said  I,  I  must  take  the  liberty  of 
claying,  before  I  conclude  my  visit,  that  I  was  much  sur- 
prised to  learn,  on  the  best  authority,  some  little  time  ago, 
that  you  knew  with  whom  that  poor  boy  left  Bleak  House, 
and  that  you  accepted  a  present  on  that  occasion.  I  have 
not  mentioned  it  to  my  Guardian,  for  I  fear  it  would 
hurt  him  unnecessarily  ;  but  I  may  say  to  you  that  I  was 
much  surprised. " 

No  ?   Really  surprised,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson  ?  '* 
lie  returned,  inquiringly,  raising  his  pleasant  eyebrows. 
Greatly  surprised.'* 

He  thought  about  it  for  a  little  while,  with  a  highly 
agreeable  and  whimsical  expression  of  face  ;  then  quite 
gave  it  up,  and  said,  in  his  most  engaging  manner : 

**  You  know  what  a  child  I  am.    Why  surprised  ?  '* 

I  was  reluctant  to  enter  minutely  into  tha.t  question  ; 
but  as  he  begged  I  would,  for  he  was  really  curious  to 
know,  I  gave  him  to  understand,  in  the  gentlest  words  I 
could  use,  that  his  conduct  seemed  to  involve  a  disregard 
of  several  moral  obligatioi^s.  He  was  much  amused  and 
interested  when  he  heard  this,  and  said,  '*  No,  really  ?  '* 
with  ingenuous  simplicity. 

**  You  know  I  don't  pretend  to  be  responsible.  I  never 
could  do  it.  Responsibility  is  a  thing  that  has  always 
been  above  me—or  below  me,'*  said  Mr.  Skim  pole,  **  I 
doM't  even  know  which  ;  but,  as  I  understand  the  way 
In  which  my  dear  Miss  Summerson  (always  remarkable 
for  her  practical  good  sense  and  clearness)  puts  this  case, 
I  should  imagine  it  was  chiefly  a  question  of  money,  do 
know  ?  " 

I  incautiously  gave  a  qualified  assent  to  this. 
Ah  I   Then  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  shaking 
bis  head,     I  am  hopeless  of  understanding  it.*' 

I  suggested,  as  I  rose  to  go,  that  it  was  not  right  to 
betray  my  Guardian's  confidence  for  a  bribe. 

"My  dear  Miss  Summerson,"  he  returned,  with  a  can- 
did hilarity  that  was  all  his  own,  **  I  can't  be  bribed." 

"  Not  by  Mr.  Bucket  ?  "  said  I. 
No,"  said  he.    *'  Not  by  anybody.    I  don't  attach 
any  value  to  money.    I  don't  care  about  it,  I  don't  know 
about  it,  I  don't  want  it,  I  don't  keep  it — ^it  goes  away 
from  me  directly.    How  can  /  be  bribed  ?  ** 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


97 


I  showed  tliat  I  was  of  a  different  opinion,  though  I 
had  not  the  capacity  for  arguing  the  question.. 

**  On  the  contrary,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  **I  am  exactly 
the  man  to  be  placed  in  a  superior  position,  in  such  a 
case  as  that.  I  am  above  the  rest  of  mankind,  in  such 
a  case  as  that.  I  can  act  with  philosophy,  in  such  a  casa 
as  that.  I  am  not  warped  by  prejudices,  as  an  Italian  baby 
is  by  bandages,  I  am  as  free  as  the  air.  I  feel  myself 
as  far  above  suspicion  as  Caesar's  wife." 

Anything  to  equal  the  lightness  of  his  manner,  and 
the  playful  impartiality  with  which  he  seemed  to  con- 
vince himself,  as  he  tossed  the  matter  about  like  a  ball 
□f  feathers,  was  surely  never  seen  in  anybody  else  I 

*'  Observe  the  case,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson.  Here 
is  a  boy  received  into  the  house  and  put  to  bed,  in  a  state 
that  I  strongly  object  to.  The  boy  being  in  bed,  a  man 
arrives— like  the  house  that  Jack  built.  Here  is  the 
man  who  demands  the  boy  who  is  received  into  the  house 
and  put  to  bed  in  a  state  that  I  strongly  object  to.  Here 
Is  a  bank-note  produced  by  the  man  who  demands  the 
boy  who  is  received  into  the  house  and  put  to  bed  in  a 
state  that  I  strongly  object  to.  Here  is  the  Skimpole 
who  accepts  the  bank-note  produced  by  the  man  who 
demands  the  boy  who  is  received  into  the  house  and  put 
to  bed  in  a  state  that  I  strongly  object  to.  Those  are 
•he  facts.  Very  well.  Should  the  Skimpole  have  refused 
the  note  ?  Why  should  the  Skimpole  have  refused  the 
ttote  ?  Skimpole  protests  to  Bucket :  *  what's  this  for  ? 
I  don't  understand  it,  it  is  of  no  use  to  me,  take  it  away. 
Bucket  still  entreats  Skimpole  to  accept  it.  Are  there 
reasons  why  Skimpole,  not  being  warped  by  prejudices, 
should  accept  it?  Yes.  Skimpole  perceives  them. 
What  are  they  ?  Skimpole  reasons  with  himself,  this  is  a 
tamed  lynx,  an  active  police  officer,  an  intelligent  man, 
a  person  of  a  peculiarly  directed  energy  and  great 
subtlety  both  of  conception  and  execution,  who  discovers 
our  friends  and  enemies  for  us  when  they  run  away, 
recovers  our  property  for  us  when  we  are  robbed,  avenges 
us  comfortably  when  we  are  murdered.  This  active 
police  officer  and  intelligent  man  has  acquired,  in  the 
exercise  of  his  art,  a  strong  faith  in  money  ;  he  finds  it 
very  useful  to  him,  and  he  makes  it  very  useful  to  society. 
Shall  I  shake  that  faith  in  Bucket,  because  I  want  it  my 
self ;  shall  I  deliberately  blunt  one  of  Bucket's  weapons  ; 
shall  I  possibly  paralyse  Bucket,  in  his  next  detective 
operation  ?  i\nd  again.  If  it  is  blameable  in  Skimpole 
to  take  the  note,  it  is  blameable  in  Bucket  to  offer  the 
note — much  more  blameable  in  Bucket,  because  he  is 
the  knowing  man.  Now,  Skimpole  wishes  to  think  well 
of  Bucket ;  Skimpole  deems  it  essential,  in  its  little 
place,  to  the  general  cohesion  of  things,  that  he  slwvM 

DD  ^^^^^  1^ 


98 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


think  well  of  Bucket.  The  State  expressly  asks  him  to 
trust  to  Bucket.  And  he  does.  And  that's  all  he  does  I  *' 
I  had  nothing  to  offer  in  reply  to  this  exposition,  an<i 
therefore  took  my  leave,  Mr.  Skimpole,  however,  who 
was  in  excellent  spirits,  would  not  hear  of  my  returning 
home  attended  only  by  **  Little  Coavinses,"  and  accom- 
panied me  himself.  He  entertained  me,  on  the  way,  with 
a  variety  of  delightful  conversation ;  and  assured  me, 
at  parting,  that  he  should  never  forget  the  fine  tact  with 
which  I  had  found  that  out  for  him  about  our  younp 
friends. 

As  it  so  happened  that  I  never  saw  Mr.  Skimpolo 
again,  I  may  at  once  finish  what  I  know  of  his  history, 
A  coolness  arose  between  him  and  my  Guardian,  based 
chiefly  on  the  foregoing  grounds,  and  on  his  having 
heartlessly  disregarded  my  Guardian's  entreaties  (as  we 
afterwards  learned  from  Ada)  in  reference  to  Richard. 
His  being  heavily  in  my  Guardian's  debt,  had  nothing  t© 
do  with  their  separation.  He  died  some  five  years  after- 
wards, and  left  a  diary  behind  him,  with  letters  and 
other  materials  towards  bis  Life  ;  which  was  published, 
and  which  showed  him  to  have  been  the  victim  of  a  com- 
bination on  the  part  of  mankind  against  an  amiable 
child.  It  was  considered  very  pleasant  reading,  but  I 
never  read  more  of  it  myself  than  the  sentence  on  which 
I  chanced  to  light  on  opening  the  book.  It  was  this. 
"Jarndyce,  in  common  with  most  other  men  I  have 
known,  is  the  Incarnation  of  Selfishness." 

And  now  I  come  to  a  part  of  my  story,  touching  myself 
very  nearly  indeed,  and  for  which  I  was  quite  unpre- 
pared when  the  circumstance  occurred.  Whatever  little 
lingerings  may  have  now  and  then  revived  in  my  mind, 
associated  with  my  poor  old  face,  had  only  revived  as  be- 
longing to  a  part  of  my  life  that  was  gone — gone  like  my 
infancy  or  my  childhood,  I  have  suppressed  none  of  my 
many  weaknesses  on  that  subject,  but  have  written  them 
as  faithfully  as  my  memory  has  recalled  them.  And  I 
hope  to  do,  and  mean  to  do,  the  same  down  to  the  last 
words  of  these  pages  ;  which  I  see  now,  not  so  very  far 
before  me. 

The  months  were  gliding  away  ;  and  my  dear  girl, 
sustained  by  the  hopes  she  had  confided  to  me,  was  th© 
same  beautiful  star  in  the  miserable  corner.  Kichard, 
more  worn  and  haggard,  haunted  the  Court  day  after 
day  ;  listlessly  sat  there  the  whole  day  long,-  when  he 
knew  there  was  no  remote  chance  of  the  suit  being  men- 
tioned ;  and  became  one  of  the  stock  sights  of  the  place. 
J  wonder  whether  any  of  the  gentlemen  remembered 
him  as  he  was  when  he  first  went  there. 

So  completely  was  he  absorbed  in  his  fixed  idea,  that 
he  used  to  avow  in  his  cheerful  moments,  that  he  should 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


99 


never  have  breathed  the  fresh  air  now  "  but  for  Wood- 
court/*  It  was  only  Mr.  Woodcourt  who  could  occasion- 
ally divert  his  attention,  for  a  few  hours  at  a  time  ;  and 
rouse  him,  even  when  he  sunk  into  a  lethargy  of  mind 
and  body  that  alarmed  us  greatly,  and  the  returns  of 
which  became  more  frequent  as  the  months  went  on 
My  dear  girl  was  right  in  saying  that  he  jnly  pursuea 
his  errors  the  more  desperately  for  her  sake.  I  have  ims 
doubt  that  his  desire  to  retrieve  what  lie  had  lost,  was 
rendered  the  more  intense  by  his  grief  for  his  young 
wife,  and  became  like  the  madness  of  a  gamester. 

I  was  there,  as  I  have  mentioned,  at  all  hours,  Vfhen 
I  was  thei'e  at  night,  I  generally  want  home  with  Cha.r  ■ 
ley  in  a  coach  ;  sometimes  my  Guardian  would  meet  me 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  we  v/ould  walk  home  together. 
One  evening,  he  had  arranged  to  meet  me  at  eight 
o'clock.  I  could  not  leave,  as  I  usually  did,  quite  punc- 
tually to  the  time,  for  I  was  working  for  my  dear  girl, 
and  had  a  few  stitches  more  to  do,  to  finish  what  I  was 
[about ;  but  it  was  within  a  few  minutes  of  the  hour, 
when  I  bundled  up  my  little  work-basket,  gave  my  dar- 
ling my  last  kiss  for  the  night,  and  hurried  down-stairs. 
Mr.  Woodcourt  went  with  me,  as  it  was  dusk. 

When  we  came  to  the  usual  place  of  meeting — it  was 
close  by,  and  Mr.  Woodcourt  had  often  accompanied  me 
before — my  Guardian  was  not  there.  We  waited  half  an 
hour,  walking  up  and  down ;  but  there  were  no  signs  of 
him.  We  agreed  that  he  was  either  prevented  from 
coming,  or  that  he  had  come,  and  gone  away  ;  and  Mr. 
Woodcourt  proposed  to  walk  home  with  me. 

It  was  the  first  walk  we  had  ever  taken  together,  ex- 
cept that  very  sliort  one  to  the  usual  place  of  meeting. 
We  spoke  of  Richard  and  Ada  the  whole  way.  I  did 
not  thank  him,  in  words,  for  what  he  had  done — my  ap- 
preciation of  it  had  risen  above  all  words  then — but  I 
hoped  he  might  not  be  without  some  understanding  of 
what  I  felt  so  strongly. 

Arriving  at  home  and  going  up-stairs,  we  found  that 
my  Guardian  was  out,  and  that  Mrs.  Woodcourt  was  out 
too.  We  were  in  the  very  same  room  into  which  I  had 
brought  my  blushing  girl,  when  her  youthful  lover,  now 
her  so  altered  husband,  was  the  choice  of  her  young 
heart  ;  the  very  same  room,  from  which  my  Guardian 
and  I  watched  them  going  away  through  the  sunlight, 
in  the  fresh  bloom  of  their  hope  and  promise. 

We  were  standing  by  the  opened  window,  looking 
down  into  the  street,  when  Mr.  Woodcourt  spoke  to  me. 
I  learned  in  a  moment  tha(  he  loved  me.  I  learned  in  a 
moment  that  my  scarred  face  was  all  unchanged  to  kim. 
I  learned  in  a  moment  that  what  I  had  thought  was  pity 
5jxd  compassion,  was  devoted,  generous,  faithful  love- 


100 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


O,  too  late  to  know  it  now,  too  iate,  too  late.  That  was 
the  first  ungrateful  thought  I  had.    Too  late. 

When  I  returned/'  he  told  me,  *'  when  I  came  back, 
no  richer  than  I  went  away,  and  found  you  nearly  risen 
from  a  sick  bed,  yet  so  inspired  by  sweet  consideration 
for  others,  and  so  free  from  a  selfish  thought—" 

*'0,  Mr.  Woodcourt,  forbear,  forbear  I"  I  entreated 
him.  I  do  not  deserve  your  high  praise.  I  had  many 
selfish  thoughts  at  that  time,  many  !" 

''Heaven  knows,  beloved  of  my  life,"  said  he,  ''that 
my  praise  is  not  a  lover's  praise,  but  the  truth.  You  do 
not  know  what  all  around  you  see  in  Esther  Summerson, 
how  many  hearts  she  touches  and  awakens,  what  sacred 
admiration  and  what  love  she  wins. " 

"O,  Mr.  Woodcourt,"  cried  I,  "it  is  a  great  thing  to 
win  love,  it  is  a  great  thing  to  win  love  !  I  am  proud  of 
it,  and  honoured  by  it ;  and  the  hearing  of  it  causes  me 
to  shed  these  tears  of  mingled  joy"  and  sorrow — ^joy  that 
I  have  won  it,  sorrow  that  I  have  not  deserved  it  better  : 
but  I  am  not  free  to  think  of  yours." 

I  said  it  with  a  stronger  heart ;  for  when  he  praised 
me  thus,  and  when  I  heard  his  voice  thrill  with  his  be. 
lief  that  what  he  said  was  true,  I  aspired  to  be  more 
worthy  of  it.  It  was  not  too  late  for  that.  Although  I 
close  this  unforeseen  page  in  my  life  to-night,  I  could  be 
worthier  of  it  all  through  my  life.  And  it  was  a  comfort 
to  me,  and  an  impulse  to  me,  and  I  felt  a  dignity  rise  up 
within  me  that  was  derived  from  him,  when  I  thought 
so. 

He  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  should  poorly  show  the  trust  that  1  have  in  the  dear 
one  who  will  evermore  be  as  dear  to  me  as  now,"  and  the 
deep  earnestness  with  which  he  said  it,  at  once  strength- 
ened me  and  made  me  weep,  "if,  after  her  assurance 
that  she  is  not  free  to  think  of  my  love,  I  urged  it.  Dear 
Esther,  let  me  only  tell  you  that  the  fond  idea  of  you 
which  I  took  abroad,  was  exalted  to  the  Heavens  when  I 
came  home.  I  have  always  hoped,  in  the  first  hour  when 
I  seemed  to  stand  in  any  ray  of  good  fortune » to  tell  you 
this.  I  have  always  feared  that  I  should  tell  it  you  iix 
vain.  My  hopes  and  fears  are  both  fulfilled  to-night.  I 
distress  you.    I  have  said  enough." 

Something  seemed  to  pass  into  my  place  that  was  like 
the  Angel  he  thought  me,  and  I  felt  so  sorrowful  for  th© 
loss  he  had  sustained  I  I  wished  to  help  him  in  his  trouble, 
as  I  had  wished  to  do  when  he  showed  that  first  com- 
miseration for  me. 

"Dear  Mr.  Woodcourt,"  said  I,  "before  we  part  to« 
night,  something  is  left  for  me  to  say.  I  never  could  say 
U  as  I  wish — I  never  shall — but — " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


101 


I  had  to  think  again  of  being  more  deserving  of  his 
love,  and  his  affliction,  before  I  could  go  on. 

*  *  -  -I  am  deeply  sensible  of  your  generosity,  and  I  shall 
treasure  its  remembrance  to  my  dying  hour.  I  know 
full  well  how  changed  I  am,  I  know  you  are  not  ac- 
quainted with  my  history,  and  I  know  what  a  noble  lovo 
that  is  which  is  so  faithful.  What  you  have  said  to  me, 
could  have  affected  me  so  much  from  no  other  lips  ;  for 
there  are  none  that  could  give  it  such  a  value  to  me.  It 
shall  not  be  lost.    It  shall  make  me  better." 

He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  turned  away 
his  head.    How  could  I  ever  be  worthy  of  those  tears  ? 

If,  in  the  unchanged  intercourse  we  shall  have  to- 
gether— in  tending  Richard  and  Ada  ;  and  I  hope  in  many 
happier  scenes  of  life — you  ever  find  anything  in  me 
which  you  can  honestly  think  is  better  than  it  used  to 
be,  believe  that  it  will  have  sprung  up  from  to-night,  and 
that  I  shall  owe  it  to  you.  And  never  believe,  dear  dear 
Mr.  Woodcourt,  never  believe,  that  I  forget  this  night ; 
or  that  while  my  heart  beats,  it  can  be  insensible  to  the 
pride  and  joy  of  having  been  beloved  by  you." 

He  took  my  hand  and  kissed  it.  He  was  like  himself 
again,  and  I  felt  still  more  encouraged. 

"I  am  induced,  by  what  you  said  just  now,"  said  I, 

to  hope  that  you  have  succeeded  in  your  endeavour?" 

*'Ihave,"  he  answered.  "  With  such  help  from  Mr. 
Jarndyce,  as  you  who  know  him  so  well  can  imajgine  hira 
to  have  rendered  me,  I  have  succeeded. " 

Heaven  bless  him  for  it,"  said  I,  giving  him  my  hand ; 

and  Heaven  bless  you  in  all  you  do  !" 

I  shall  do  it  better  for  the  wish,"  he  answered  it 
will  make  me  enter  on  these  new  duties,  as  on  another 
sacred  trust  from  you." 

"Ah  !  Richard!"  I  exclaimed  involuntarily,  "what 
will  he  do  when  you  are  gone  ! " 

"I  am  not  required  to  go  yet ;  I  would  not  desert  him, 
dear  Miss  Summerson,  even  if  I  were." 

One  other  thing  I  felt  it  needful  to  touch  upon,  before 
he  left  me.  I  knew  that  I  should  not  be  worthier  of  the 
love  I  could  not  take,  if  I  reserved  it. 

"  Mr.  Woodcourt,"  said  I,  "  you  will  be  glad  to  know 
from  my  lips  before  I  say  Good  night,  that  in  the  future, 
which  is  clear  and  bright  before  me,  I  am  most  happy, 
most  fortunate,  have  nothing  to  regret  or  to  desire." 

It  was  indeed  a  glad  hearing  to  him,  he  replied. 
From  my  childhood  I  have  been,"  said  I,  "  the  ob- 
ject of  the  untiring  goodness  of  the  best  of  human 
beings  ;  to  whom  I  am  so  bound  by  every  tie  of  attach- 
ment, gratitude,  and  love,  that  nothing  I  could  do  in  the 
compass  of  a  life  could  express  the  feelings  of  a  single 
day." 


102  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I  share  those  feelings,"  he  returned  ;  You  speak 
of  Mr.  Jarndyce. " 

You  know  his  virtues  well,"  said  I,  but  few  can 
know  the  greatness  of  his  character  as  I  know  it.  All 
its  highest  and  best  qualities  have  been  revealed  to  nie 
in  nothing  more  brightly,  than  in  the  shaping  out  of 
that  future  in  which  I  am  so  happy.  And  if  your  high- 
est homage  and  respect  had  not  been  his  already, — 
which  I  know  they  are, — they  would  have  been  his,  I 
think,  on  this  assurance,  and  in  the  feeling  it  would 
have  awakened  in  you  towards  him  for  my  sake." 

He  fervently  replied,  that  indeed  indeed  they  would 
have  been.    I  gave  him  my  hand  again. 

Good  night,"  I  said  ;  Good-bye." 
**The  first,  until  we  meet  to-morrow  :  the  second,  aa 
a  farewell  to  this  theme  between  us  for  ever?" 

Yes." 

**Good  night ;  good-bye  !  " 

He  left  me,  and  I  stood  at  the  dark  window  watching 
the  street.  His  love,  in  all  its  constancy  and  generosity, 
had  come  so  suddenly  upon  me,  that  he*  had  not  left  me 
a  minute  when  my  fortitude  gave  way  again,  and  the 
street  was  blotted  out  by  my  rushing  tears. 

But  they  were  not  tears  of  regret  and  sorrow.  No. 
He  had  called  me  the  beloved  of  his  life,  and  had  said 
I  would  be  evermore  as  dear  to  him  as  I  was  then  ;  and 
I  felt  as  if  my  heart  would  not  hold  the  triumph  of  hav- 
ing heard  those  words.  My  first  wild  thought  had  died 
away.  It  was  not  too  late  to  hear  them,  for  it  was  not 
too  late  to  be  animated  by  them  to  be  good,  true,  grate- 
ful, and  contented.  How  easy  my  path  ;  how  much 
easier  than  his  I 


CHAPTER  LXn. 

Another  Discovery. 

r  HAD  not  the  courage  to  see  any  one  that  night.  I 
had  not  even  the  courage  to  see  myself,  for  I  was  afraid 
that  my  tears  might  a  little  reproach  me.  I  went  up  to 
my  room  in  the  dark,  and  prayed  in  the  dark,  and  lay 
down  in  the  dark  to  sleep.  I  had  no  need  of  any  light 
to  read  my  Guardian's  letter  by,  for  I  knew  it  by  heart. 
I  took  it  from  the  place  where  I  kept  it,  and  repeated 
its  contents  by  its  own  clear  light  of  integrity  and  love, 
and  went  to  sleep  with  it  on  my  pillow. 

I  was  up  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  called  Charley 
to  come  for  a  walk.  We  bought  flowers  for  the  break 
fast- table,  and  came  back  and  arranged  them,  and  were 

busy  as  possible.    We  were  so  early,  that  I  had  good 


BLEAK  HOUSE 


103 


time  still  for  Charley's  lesson,  before  breakfast ;  Char- 
ley (who  was  not  in  the  least  improved  in  the  old  defec- 
tive article  of  grammar)  came  through  it  with  great  ap- 
plause ;  and  we  were  altogether  very  notable.  When 
my  Guardian  appeared,  he  said,  Why,  little  woman, 
you  look  fresher  than  your  flowers  I  "  And  Mrs.  Wood- 
court  repeated  and  translated  a  passage  from  the  Mew- 
iinwillinwodd,  expressive  of  my  being  like  a  mountain 
with  the  sun  upon  it. 

This  was  all  so  pleasant,  that  I  hope  it  made  me  more 
like  the  mountain  than  I  had  been  before.  After  break- 
fast, I  waited  my  opportunity,  and  peeped  about  a  little, 
until  I  saw  my  Guardian  in  his  own  room — the  room  of 
last  night — by  himself.  Then  I  made  an  excuse  to  go 
in  with  my  housekeeping  keys,  shutting  the  door  after 
me. 

Well,  Dame  Durden  ?"  said  my  Guardian  ;  the  post 
had  brought  him  several  letters,  and  he  was  writing. 
You  want  money  ! 

No,  indeed,  I  have  plenty  in  hand." 

There  never  Vi^as  such  a  Dame  Durden,"  said  my 
Guardian,    for  making  money  last." 

He  had  laid  down  his  pen,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
looking  at  me.  I  have  often  spoken  of  his  bright  face, 
but  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  it  look  so  bright  and 
good.  There  was  a  high  happiness  upon  it,  which  made 
me  think,  *'he  has  been  doing  some  great  kindness  this 
morning.'* 

There  never  was,"  said  my  Guardian,  musing  as  he 
smiled  upon  me,  such  a  Dame  Durden  for  making 
money  last." 

He  had  never  yet  altered  his  old  manner.  I  loved  it, 
and  him,  so  much,  that  when  I  now  went  up  to  him  and 
took  my  usual  chair,  which  was  always  put  at  his  side 
— for  sometimes  I  read  to  him,  and  sometimes  I  talked 
to  him,  and  sometimes  I  silently  worked  by  him — I 
hardly  liked  to  disturb  it  by  laying  my  hand  on  his 
breast.    But  I  found  I  did  not  disturb  it  at  all. 

*'Dear  Guardian,"  said  I,  *'Iwant  to  speak  to  you. 
Have  I  been  remiss  in  anything  ?  " 

'*  Remiss  in  anything,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Have  I  not  been  what  I  have  meant  to  be,  since — I 
brought  the  answer  to  your  letter.  Guardian  ?  " 

"You  have  been  everything  I  could  desire,  ray 
We." 

**Iam  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  chat,"  I  I'etarned. 
•*  You  know,  you  said  to  me,  was  this  the  mistress  of 
Bleak  House  ?   And  I  said,  yes." 

"  Yes,"  said  my  Guardian,  nodding  his  head.  He  had 
put  his  arm  about  me,  as  if  ihere  were  something  to 
protect  me  from  ,  and  looked  into  my  face,  smiling. 


104  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Since  then/'  said  I,  "we  have  never  spoken  on  the 
subject  except  once." 

And  then  I  said,  Bleak  House  was  thinning  fast ; 
and  so  it  was,  laiy  dear." 

And  /said,"  I  timidly  reminded  him,  "but  its  miS' 
tress  remained." 

He  still  held  me  in  the  same  protecting  manner,  and 
with  the  same  bright  goodness  in  his  face. 

''Dear  Guardian,"  said  I,  ''  I  know  how  you  have  felt 
all  that  has  happened,  and  how  considerate  you  have 
been.  As  so  much  time  has  passed,  and  as  you  spoke 
only  this  morning  of  my  being  so  well  again,  perhaps 
you  expect  me  to  renew  the  subject.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  do  so.  I  will  be  the  mistress  of  Bleak  House  when 
you  please." 

''See  !"  he  returned  gaily,  "what  a  sympathy  there 
must  be  between  us  !  I  have  had  nothing  else,  poor 
Rick  excepted — it's  a  large  exception — in  my  mind. 
When  you  came  in,  I  was  full  of  it.  When  shall  we 
give  Bleak  House  its  mistress,  little  woman?" 

"  When  you  please." 

"Next  month  !  " 

"Next  month,  dear  Guardian." 

"  The  day  on  which  I  take  the  happiest  and  best  step 
of  my  life — the  day  on  which  I  shall  be  a  man  more  ex- 
ulting and  more  enviable  than  any  other  man  in  the 
world — the  day  on  which  I  give  Bleak  House  its  little 
mistress-»-shall  be  next  month,  then,"  said  my  Guardian. 

I  put  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  just 
as  I  had  done  on  the  day  wh-en  I  brought  my  answer. 

A  servant  came  to  the  door  to  announce  Mr.  Bucket^ 
which  was  quite  unnecessary,  for  Mr.  Bucket  was  al- 
ready looking  in  over  the  servant's  shoulder.  "Mr. 
Jarndyce  and  Miss  Summerson,"  said  he  rather  out  of 
breath,  "with  all  apologies  for  intruding,  will  you  allow 
me  to  order  up  a  person  that's  on  the  stairs,  and  that 
objects  to  being  left  there  in  case  of  becoming  the  sub- 
ject of  observation  in  his  absence?  Thank  you.  Be  so 
good  as  chair  that  there  Member  in  this  direction,  will 
you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bucket,  beckoning  over  the  banisters. 

This  singular  request  produced  an  old  man  in  a  black 
skull-cap,  unable  to  walk,  who  was  carried  up  by  a 
couple  of  bearers,  and  deposited  in  the  room  near  the 
door.  Mr.  Bucket  immediately  got  rid  of  the  bearers, 
mysteriously  shut  the  door,  and  bolted  it. 

"Now  you  see,  Mr.  Jarndyce,"  he  then  began,  put- 
ting down  his  hat,  and  opening  his  subject  with  a  flour- 
ish of  his  well-remembered  finger,  "you  know  me,  and 
Miss  Summerson  knows  me.  This  gentleman  likevdse 
knows  me,  and  his  name  is  Smallweed.  The  discount- 
ing line  is  his  line  principally,  and  he's  what  you  may 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


105 


call  a  dealer  in  bills.  That's  about  what  you  are,  you 
know,  ain't  you  ? "  said  Mr.  Bucket,  stopping  a  little  to 
address  the  gentleman  in  question,  who  was  exceedingly 
suspicious  of  liim. 

He  seemed  about  to  dispute  this  designation  of  him- 
self, when  he  was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing. 

*'Now,  Moral,  you  know  1 "  said  Mr.  Bucket,  improv- 
ing the  accident.  Don't  you  contradict  when  there 
ain't  no  occasion,  and  you  won't  be  took  in  that  way. 
Now,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  I  address  myself  to  you.  I've  been 
negotiating  with  this  gentleman  on  behalf  of  Sir  Leices- 
ter Dedlock,  Baronet ;  and  one  way  and  another  I've 
been  in  and  out  and  about  his  premises  a  deal.  His 
premises  are  the  premises  formerly  occupied  by  Krook, 
Marine  Store  Dealer — a  relation  of  this  gentleman's, 
that  you  saw  in  his  lifetime,  if  I  don't  mistake  ?  " 

My  Guardian  replied  Yes." 

Well  !  You  are  to  understand,"  said  Mr.  Bucket, 
''that  this  gentleman  he  come  into  Krook's  property, 
and  a  good  deal  of  magpie  property  there  was.  Vast 
lots  of  waste  paper  among  the  rest.  Lord  bless  you,  of 
no  use  to  nobody  ! " 

The  cunning  of  Mr.  Bucket's  eye,  and  the  masterly 
manner  in  which  he  contrived,  without  a  look  or  a  word 
against  which  his  watchful  auditor  could  protest,  to  let 
us  know  that  he  stated  the  case  according  to  previous 
agreement,  and  could  say  much  more  of  Mr.  Smallweed 
if  he  thought  it  advisable,  deprived  us  of  any  merit  in 
quite  understanding  him.  His  difficulty  was  increased 
by  Mr.  Smallweed's  being  deaf  as  well  as  suspicious^ 
and  watching  his  face  with  the  closest  attention. 

"Among  them  odd  beaps  of  old  papers,  tbis  gentle- 
man, when  he  comes  into  the  property,  naturally  begins 
zo  rummage,  don't  you  see?  "  said  Mr.  Bucket. 

''To  which?  Say  that  again,"  cried  Mr.  Smallweed, 
in  a  shrill  sharp  voice. 

"  To  rummage,"  repeated  Mr.  Bucket.  "  Being  a  pru- 
dent man,  and  being  accustomed  to  take  care  of  your 
own  affairs,  you  begin  to  rummage  among  the  papers  as 
you  have  come  into  ;  don't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  cried  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  conversationally, 
*^*and  much  to  blame  you  would  be  if  you  didn't.  And 
so  you  chance  to  find,  you  know,"  Mr.  Bucket  went  on, 
stooping  over  him  with  an  air  of  cheerful  raillery  which 
Mr.  Smallweed  by  no  means  reciprocated,  "  and  so  you 
chance  to  find,  you  know,  a  paper  with  the  signature  of 
Jarndyce  to  it.    Don't  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Smallweed  glanced  with  a  troubled  eye  at  us,  and 
grudgingly  nodded  assent. 

"  And  coming  to  look  at  the  paper,  at  your  full  leisuro 


106 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  convenience — all  in  good  time,  for  you're  not  curious 
to  read  it,  and  why  should  you  be  I — what  do  you  find 
it  to  be  but  a  Will,  you  see.  That's  the  drollery  of  it," 
said  Mr.  Bucket,  with  the  same  lively  air  of  recalling  a 
joke  for  the  enjoyment  of  Mr.  Small  weed,  who  still  had 
the  same  crestfallen  appearance  of  not  enjoying  it  at 
all ;     what  do  you  find  it  to  be  but  a  Will 

**  I  don't  know  that  it's  good  as  a  will,  or  as  anything 
else,"  snarled  Smallweed. 

Mr.  Bucket  eyed  the  old  man  for  a  moment — he  had 
slipped  and  shrunk  down  in  his  chair  into  a  mere  bundle 
— as  if  he  were  much  disposed  to  pounce  upon  him ; 
nevertheless,  he  continued  to  bend  over  him  with  the 
same  agreeable  air,  keeping  the  corner  of  one  of  his  eyes 
upon  us. 

''Notwithstanding  which,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  *'you 
get  a  little  doubtful  and  uncomfortable  in  your  mind 
about  it,  having  a  very  tender  mind  of  your  own." 

**Eh?  What  do  you  say  I  have  got  of  ray  own?" 
asked  Mr.  Smallweed,  with  his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"  A  very  tender  mind." 

"Ho  !    Well,  go  on,"  said  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"  Ajid  as  youVe  heard  a  good  deal  mentioned  regard- 
ing a  celebrated  Chancery  will  case,  of  the  same  name  ; 
and  as  you  know  what  a  card  Krook  was  for  buying  all 
manner  of  old  pieces  of  furniter,  and  books,  and  papers, 
and  what  not,  and  never  liking  to  part  with  'em,  and 
always  a  going  to  teach  himself  to  read  ;  you  begin  to 
think — and  you  never  was  more  correct  in  your  bom 
days — '  Ecod,  if  I  don't  look  about  me,  I  may  get  into 
trouble  regarding  this  will.'" 

"Now,  mind  how  you  put  it,  Bucket,"  cried  the  old 
man  anxiously,  with  his  hand  sft  his  ear.  "  Speak  up  ; 
none  of  your  brimstone  tricks.  Pick  me  up  ;  I  want 
to  hear  better.    O  Lord,  I  am  shaken  to  bits  ! " 

Mr.  Bucket  had  certainly  picked  him  up  at  a  dart. 
However,  as  soon  as  he  could  be  heard  through  Mr. 
Smallweed's  coughing,  and  his  vicious  ejaculations  of 
"  O  my  bones  !  O  dear  I  I've  no  breath  in  my  body  I 
I'm  worse  than  the  chattering,  clattering,  brimstone  pig 
at  home  ! "  Mr.  Bucket  proceeded,  in  the  same  convi- 
vial manner  as  before. 

"  So,  as  I  happen  to  be  in  the  habit  of  coming  about 
your  premises,  you  take  me  into  your  confidence,  don't 
ou?" 

I  think  it  would  be  impossible  to  make  an  admission 
with  more  ill-will,  and  a  worse  grace,  than  Mr.  Small- 
weed  displayed  when  he  admitted  this  ;  rendering  it 
perfectly  evident  that  Mr.  Bucket  was  the  very  last  per- 
son he  would  have  thought  of  taking  into  his  confidence, 
M  he  could  by  any  possibility  have  kept  him  out  of  it. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


107 


And  I  go  into  the  business  with  you, — very  pleasant 
we  are  over  it  ;  and  I  confirm  you  in  your  well-founded 
fears,  that  you  will-get-yourself-in-to-a-most  precious 
line  if  you  don't  come  out  with  that  there  will,"  said 
Mr.  Bucket,  emphatically  ;  and  accordingly  you  ar- 
range with  me  that  it  shall  be  delivered  up  to  this  pres- 
ent Mr.  Jarndyce,  on  no  conditions.  If  it  should  prove 
to  be  valuable,  you  trusting  yourself  to  him  for  your  re- 
ward ;  that's  about  where  it  is,  ain't  it?" 

"That's  what  was  agreed,"  Mr.  Small  weed  assented, 
vrith  the  same  bad  grace. 

*'  In  consequence  of  which,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  dismiss- 
ing his  agreeable  manner  all  at  once,  and  becoming 
strictly  business-like,  "  you've  got  that  will  upon  your 
person  at  present  time  ;  and  the  only  thing  that  remain^ 
for  you  to  do  is,  just  to  Out  with  it  I " 

Having  given  us  one  glance  out  of  the  watching  cot 
ner  of  his  eye,  and  having  given  his  nose  one  triumphan-s 
rub  with  his  fore-finger,  Mr.  Bucket  stood  with  his  eyes 
fastened  on  his  confidential  friend,  and  his  hand  stretched 
forth  ready  to  take  the  paper  and  present  it  to  my  Guard- 
ian. It  was  not  produced  without  much  reluctance,  and 
many  declarations  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Small  weed  that  he 
was  a  poor  industrious  man,  and  that  he  left  it  to  Mr. 
Jarndyce's  honour  not  to  let  him  lose  by  his  honesty. 
Little  by  little,  he  very  slowly  took  from  a  breast-pocket 
a  stained  discoloured  paper,  which  was  much  singed 
upon  the  outside,  and  a  little  burnt  at  the  edges,  as  if  it 
had  long  ago  been  thrown  upon  a  fire,  and  hastily 
snatched  off  again.  Mr.  Bucket  lost  no  time  in  transfer- 
ring this  paper,  with  the  dexterity  of  a  conjuror,  from 
Mr.  Smallweed  to  Mr.  Jarndyce.  As  he  gave  it  to  my 
Guardian,  he  whispered  behind  his  fingers  : 

''Hadn't  settled  how  to  make  their  market  of  it.  Quar- 
relled and  hinted  about  it.  I  laid  out  twenty  pound  upon 
it.  First,  the  avaricious  grandchildren  split  upon  him, 
on  account  of  their  objections  to  his  living  so  unreason- 
ably long,  and  then  they  split  on  one  another.  Lord  1 
there  ain't  one  of  the  family  that  wouldn't  sell  the  other 
for  a  pound  or  two,  except  the  old  lady — and  she's  only 
out  of  it  because  she's  too  weak  in  her  mind  to  drive  a 
bargain." 

"Mr.  Bucket,"  said  my  Guardian  aloud,  "whatever 
the  worth  of  this  paper  may  be  to  any  one,  my  obliga- 
tions are  great  to  you  ;  and  if  it  be  of  any  worth,  I  hold 
myself  bound  to  see  Mr.  Smallweed  remunerated  accord- 
ingly." 

"Not  according  to  your  merits,  you  know,"  said  Mr. 
Bucket,  in  friendly  explanation  to  Mr.  Smallweed, 
"  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  that.    According  to  its  value." 

"That  is  what  I  mean,"  said  my  Guardian.  "You 


108 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


may  Dbserve,  Mr.  Bucket,  fhat  I  abstain  ironi  examining 
this  paper  myself.  The  plain  truth  is,  I  have  forsworn 
and  abjured  the  whole  business  these  many  years,  and 
my  soul  Is  oick  of  it.  But  Miss  Summerson  and  I  will 
Immediately  place  the  paper  iu  the  hands  jf  my  solicitor 
in  the  3ause,  and  its  Bxistence  shall  be  made  known  .vith- 
out  delay  to  all  other  parties  interested." 

''Mr.  Jarndyce  3an't  say  fairer  than  that,  you  under- 
stand,' observed  Mr.  Bucket  lo  his  fellow  visitor.  '*  And 
It  being  now  made  clear  to  you  that  nobody's  going  to  be 
^vronged — which  nust  be  a  great  relief  to  your  mind — 
we  may  proceed  with  the  ceremony  of  chairing  you  home 
again.'' 

He  unbolted  the  door,  called  in  the  bearers,  wished  us 
good  morning,  and  ^vith  a  took  full  of  meaning,  and  a 
3rook  of  his  finger  at  parting,  went  his  ♦vay. 

We  went  our  way  too,  which  was  to  Lincoln's  Inn,  as 
quickly  as  possible.  Mr.  Kenge  was  disengaged  ;  and 
we  found  him  it  his  table  in  his  dusty  room,  with  the 
inexpressive-looking  books,  and  --he  piles  papers. 
Chairs  having  been  placed  Tor  as  bv  Mr.  Gfuppy,  Mr. 
Kenge  expressed  the  surprise  and  gratification  he  felt  at 
the  unusual  sight  of  Mr.  Jarndyce  m  his  office.  He 
turned  over  his  double  eye-glass  as  he  spoke,  and  was 
more  Conversation  Kenge  than  ever. 

''I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  "chat  the  genial  influence 
of  Miss  Summerson,"  he  bowed  to  me,  "  may  have  in- 
duced Mr.  Jarndyce,"  he  bowed  to  him,  '*to  forego  .^ome 
little  of  his  animosity  towards  a  Cause  ^nd  towards  a 
Court  which  are — shall  I  say,  which  take  Iheir  place  in 
the  stately  vista  of  the  pillars  of  our  profession  ?  " 

*'I  am  inclined  to  think,"  returned  my  Guardian, 
"  that  Miss  Summerson  has  seen  too  much  of  the  effects 
of  the  Court  and  the  Cause  to  exert  any  Influence  in  their 
favour.  Nevertheless,  they  are  i  part  <  f  the  Dccasion  of 
my  being  here.  Mr.  Kenge,  before  I  lay  this  paper  on 
your  desk  and  have  done  with  it,  let  me  tell  you  how  it 
has  come  into  my  hands." 

He  did  so  shortly  u-nd  distinctly.  **It  :ould  not,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Kenge,  *'have  been  stated  more  plainly  and  to 
the  purpose,  if  it  had  been  \  case  at  law."  ''Did  you 
ever  know  English  law,  or  equity  either,  plain  and  to 
the  purpose?"  said  my  Guardian.  fie  '^'  oaid  Mr. 

Kenge. 

At  first  he  had  not  seemed  to  attach  much  Importance 
to  the  paper,  but  when  he  saw  it  he  appeared  more  in- 
terested, and  vvhen  he  had  opened  *nd  read  a  little  ox  it 
through  his  eye-glass,  he  became  amazed.  "Mr.  Jarn- 
dyce," he  said,  looking  off  it,  "you  have  perused  this  /" 

"  Not  I  !  '  returned  my  Guardian. 
But  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr  Kenge,  "  it  is  a  Will  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


109 


later  date  tliau  any  in  the  suit.  It  appears  to  be  all  in 
the  Testator's  handwriting.  It  is  duly  executed  and  at- 
tested. And  even  if  intended  to  be  cancelled,  as  might 
possibly  be  supposed  to  be  denoted  by  these  marks  of 
Sre,  it  is  not  cancelled.  Here  it  is,  a  perfect  instru- 
ment V* 

''Weill"  said  my  Guardian.  "What  is  that  to 
me?'* 

*'Mr.  Guppy  !  "  cried  Mr.  Kenge,  raising  his  voice.— 
'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Jarndyce." 
''Sir." 

"Mr.  Vholes  of  Symond's  Inn.    My  compliments. 
Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.    Glad  to  speak  with  him.'' 
Mr.  Guppy  disappeared. 

"  You  ask  me  what  is  this  to  you,  Mr.  Jarndyce.  If 
you  had  perused  this  document,  you  would  have  seen 
that  it  reduces  your  interest  considerably,  though  still 
leaving  it  a  very  handsome  one,  still  leaving  it  a  very 
handsome  one,"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  waving  his  hand  per- 
suasively and  blandly.  "  You  would  further  have  seen, 
that  the  interests  of  Mr.  Richard  Carstone,  and  of  Miss 
Ada  Clare,  now  Mrs.  Richard  Carstone,  are  very  materi- 
ally advanced  by  it." 

"Kenge,"  said  my  Guardian,  "if  all  the  flourishing 
wealth  that  the  suit  brought  into  this  vile  sourt  of  Chan- 
cery could  fall  to  my  two  voung  cousins,  I  should  be 
well  contented.  But  do  you  ask  me  to  believe  that  any 
good  is  to  come  of  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  ?  " 

"  O  really,  Mr.  Jarndyce  !  Prejudice,  prejudice.  My 
dear  sir,  this  is  a  very  great  country,  a  very  great  coun- 
tvj.  Its  system  of  equity  is  a  very  great  system,  a  very 
great  system.    Really,  really  ! " 

My  Guardian  said  no  more,  and  Mr.  Vholes  arrived. 
He  was  modestly  impressed  by  Mr.  Kenge's  professional 
eminence. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr^  Vholes  ?  Will  you  be  so  good 
as  to  take  a  chair  here  by  me,  and  look  over  this  paper?" 

Mr.  Vholes  iid  as  he  was  asked,  and  seemed  to  read 
it  every  word.  He  was  not  excited  by  it ;  but  he  was 
not  excited  by  anything.  When  he  had  well  axamined 
it,  he  retired  with  Mr.  Kenge  into  a  window,  and  shad- 
ing his  mouth  with  his  black  glove,  spoke  to  him  at 
some  length.  I  was  not  surprised  to  observe  Mr.  Kenge 
inclined  to  dispute  what  he  said  before  he  had  said  much, 
for  I  knew  that  no  two  people  ever  did  agree  about  any- 
thing in  Jarndyce  and  larndyce.  But  he  seemed  to  get 
the  better  of  Mr.  Kenge,  *oo,  in  a  conversation  that 
sounded  as  if  it  were  txlmost  composed  of  the  vvords, 
"Receiver-General,"  "Accountant-General,  '  "  Report," 
"  Estate,"  and  "  Costs."  When  they  had  finished,  they 
came  back  to  Mr.  Kenge's  table,  and  spoke  aloud. 


110 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"  Well !  Bu:»  this  is  a  very  remarkable  document,  Mr. 
Vholes  ?  "  said  Mr.  Kenge. 

Mr.  Vholes  said,  ''Very  much  so." 

"  And  a  very  important  document,  Mr.  Vholes  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Kenge. 

Again  Mr.  Vholes  said,  **  Very  much  so." 

'*  And  as  you  say,  Mr,  Vholes,  when  the  Cause  is  in 
the  paper  next  Term,  this  document  will  be  an  unexpect- 
ed and  interesting  feature  in  it, "  said  Mr.  Kenge,  look- 
ing loftily  at  my  Guardian. 

Mr.  Vholes  was  gratified,  as  a  smaller  practitioner  striv- 
ing to  keep  respectable,  to  be  confirmed  in  any  opinion 
M  his  own  by  such  an  authority. 

"  And  when,"  asked  my  Guardian,  rising  after  a  pause, 
during  which  Mr.  Kenge  had  rattled  his  money,  and  Mr. 
Vholes  had  picked  his  pimples,  "  when  is  next  Term?" 

Next  Term,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  will  be  next  month,"  said 
Mr.  Kenge.  "  Of  course  we  shall  at  once  proceed  to  do 
what  is  necessary  with  this  document,  and  to  collect  the 
necessary  evidence  concerning  it  ;  and  of  course  you  will 
receive  our  usual  notification  of  the  Cause  being  in  the 
paper." 

"  To  which  I  shall  pay,  of  course,  my  usual  attention." 

"  Still  bent,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  showing 
us  through  the  the  outer  office  to  the  door,  still  bent, 
even  with  your  enlarged  mind,  on  echoing  a  popular  pre- 
judice? We  are  a  prosperous  community,  Mr.  Jarn- 
dyce, a  very  prosperous  community.  We  are  a  great 
country,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  we  are  a  very  great  country. 
This  is  a  great  system,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  and  would  you 
wish  a  great  country  to  have  a  little  system?  Now, 
really,  really  ! " 

He  said  this  at  the  stair-head,  gently  moving  his  right 
hand  as  if  it  were  a  silver  trowel,  with  which  to  spread 
the  cement  of  his  words  on  the  structure  of  the  systeiM, 
and  consolidate  it  for  a  thousand-  ages. 


CHAPTER  LXm. 
Steel  and  Irm, 

George's  shooting-gallery  is  to  let,  and  the  stock  is 
sold  off,  and  George  himself  is  at  Chesney  Wold,  attend- 
ing on  Sir  Leicester  in  his  rides,  and  riding  very  near  his 
bridle-rein,  because  of  the  uncertain  hand  with  which  he 
guides  his  horse.  But  not  to-day  is  George  so  occupied. 
He  is  journeying  to-day  into  the  iron  country  farther 
north,  to  look  about  him. 

As  he  comes  into  the  iron  country  farther  north,  such 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Ill 


fresh  green  woods  as  those  of  Chesney  Wold  are  left  be- 
hind ;  and  coal-pits  and  ashes,  high  chimneys  and  red 
bricks,  blighted  verdure,  scorching  fires,  and  a  heavy 
never  lightening  cloud  of  smoke,  become  the  features 
of  the  scenery.  Among  such  objects  rides  the  trooper, 
looking  about  him,  and  always  looking  for  something  he 
has  come  to  find. 

At  last,  on  the  black  canal  bridge  of  a  busy  town, 
with  a  clang  of  iron  in  it,  and  more  fires  and  more  smoke 
than  he  has  seen  yet,  the  trooper,  swart  with  the  dust 
of  the  coal  roads,  checks  his  horse,  and  asks  the  work- 
man does  he  know  the  name  of  Rouncewell  there- 
abouts ?  " 

Why,  master,"  quoth  the  workman,  do  I  know  my 
own  name  ?" 

**  'Tis  so  well  known  here,  is  it,  comrade  ? asked  the 
trooper. 

**  Rounce wells  ?   Ah  !  you're  right." 

"And  where  might  he  be  now?"  asks  the  trooper, 
with  a  glance  before  him. 

The  bank,  the  factory,  or  the  house  ?"  the  workman 
wants  to  know. 

Hum  !  Rouncewells  is  so  great  apparently,"  mut- 
ters the  trooper,  stroking  his  chin,  that  I  have  as  good 
as  half  a  mind  to  go  back  again.  Why  I  don't  know 
which  I  want.  Should  I  find  Mr.  Rouncewell  at  the 
factory,  do  you  think  ?  " 

*"Tain't  easy  to  say  where  you'd  find  him — at  this 
time  of  the  day  you  might  find  either  him  or  son  there, 
if  he's  in  town  ;  but  his  contracts  take  him  away." 

And  which  is  the  factory  ?  Why,  he  sees  those  chim- 
neys— the  tallest  ones  !  Yes,  he  sees  them.  Well !  let 
him  keep  his  eye  on  those  chimneys,  going  on  as  straight 
as  ever  he  can,  and  presently  he'll  see  'em  down  a  turn- 
ing on  the  left,  shut  in  by  a  great  brick  wall  which 
forms  one  side  of  the  street.    That's  Rouncewells. 

The  trooper  thanks  his  informant,  and  rides  slowly  on, 
looking  about  him.  He  does  not  turn  back,  but  puts  up 
his  horse  (and  is  much  disposed  to  groom  him  too)  at  a 
public  house  where  some  of  Rouncewell's  hands  are 
dining,  as  the  ostler  tells  him.  Some  of  Rouncewell's 
hands  have  just  knocked  off  for  dinner  time,  and  seem 
to  be  invading  the  whole  town.  They  are  very  sinewy 
and  strong,  are  Rouncewell's  hands — a  little  sooty  too. 

He  comes  to  a  gateway  in  the  brick  wall,  looks  in,  and 
sees  a  great  perplexity  of  iron  lying  about,  in  every 
stage,  and  in  a  vast  variety  of  shapes ;  in  bars,  in 
wedges,  in  sheets  ;  in  tanks,  in  boilers,  in  axles,  in 
wheels,  in  cogs,  in  cranks,  in  rails  ;  twisted  and 
wrenched  into  eccentric  and  perverse  forms,  as  separata 
parts  of  machinery  j  mountains  of  it  broken  up,  and 


112 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


rusty  in  its  age  ;  distant  furnaces  of  it  glowing  and 
bubbling  in  itsyoutb  ;  bright  fireworks  of  it  showeririjg 
about,  under  the  blows  of  the  steam  hammer ;  red-hot 
iron,  white-hot  iron,  cold-black  iron  ;  an  ir  n  taste,  an 
iron  smell,  and  a  Babel  of  iron  sounds. 

"  This  iss  a  place  to  make  a  m^ke  a  man's  h  ^.d  iche, 
too  ! says  the  trooper,  looking  ab^ut  him  f  r  count- 
ing-house. Wlio  comes  here?  This  is  vcr^  liJie  me 
before  I  was  set  up.  This  ought  to  be  my  ne.^hc  w,  if 
likenesses  run  in  families.  Your  ervant,  sir." 
Yours,  sir.  Are  you  looking  for  any  one  ?  " 
Excuse  me.    Young  Mr.  Rouncewell,  I  believe?" 

"Yes." 

*'  I  was  looking  for  your  father,  sir.  I  wished  to  have 
a  word  witli  him." 

The  young  man,  telling  him  he  is  fortunate  in  his 
choice  of  a  time,  for  his  father  is  ther^,  leads  e  wa 
to  the  office  where  he  is  to  be  f  .und.  '*  Very  like  me 
before  I  was  set  up — devilish  like  me  1 "  think;:  he 
trooper,  as  he  follows.  They  come  to  a  builaing  *  i  he 
yard  ;  with  an  office  on  an  upper  floor.  At  sigh  f  the 
gentleman  in  the  office,  Mr.  George  turns  ver}  red. 

*'What  name  shall  I  say  to  my  father?"  asks  the 
young  man. 

George  full  of  the  idea  of  iron,  in  desperation  mswers 
Steel,"  and  is  so  presented.  He  is  left  alone  with  fche 
gentleman  in  the  office,  who  sits  at  a  table  with  count- 
books  before  him,  and  some  sheets  of  papor,  Jotted 
with  hosts  of  figures  and  drawings  of  cunning  shapes. 
It  is  a  bare  office,  with  bare  windows,  looking  n  the 
iron  view  below.  Tumbled  together  on  the  tab.e  are 
some  pieces  of  iron,  purposely  broken  to  be  tested,  at 
various  periods  of  their  service,  in  various  capacities. 
There  is  iron-dust  on  everything  ;  and  the  smoke  is  ^een, 
through  tlie  windows,  rolling  heavily  out  of  the  tall 
chimneys,  to  mingle  with  the  smoke  from  a  vaporous 
Babylon  of  other  chimneys. 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  Mr.  Steel,"  says  the  gentle- 
man, when  his  visitor  has  taken  a  rustic  chairo 

Well,  Mr.  Rouncewell,"  George  replies,  leaning  for- 
ward, with  his  left  arm  on  his  knee,  and  his  hat  in  his 
hand  ;  and  very  chary  of  meeting  his  brother's  eye  ;  I 
am  not  without  my  expectations,  that  in  the  present 
visit  I  may  prove  to  be  more  free  than  welcome.  I  have 
served  as  a  dragoon  in  my  day  ;  and  a  comrade  of  mine 
that  I  was  once  rather  partial  to,  was,  if  I  don't  deceive 
myself,  a  brother  of  yours.  I  believe  you  had  a  brother 
who  gave  his  family  some  trouble,  and  ran  away,  and 
never  did  any  good  but  in  keeping  away  ?  " 

Are  you  quite  sure,"  returns  the  ironmaster,  in  an 
altered  voice,    that  your  name  is  Steel  ?  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


113 


The  trooper  falters  and  looks  at  liim.  His  brother 
starts  up,  calls  him  by  his  name,  and  grasps  him  by  both 
hands. 

You  are  too  quick  for  me  !"  cries  the  trooper,  with 
the  tears  springing  out  of  his  eyes.  "How  do  you  do, 
my  dear  old  fellow.  I  never  could  have  thought  you 
would  have  been  half  so  glad  to  see  me  as  all  this.  How 
do  you  do,  my  dear  old  fellow,  hov/  do  you  do 

They  shake  hands,  and  embrace  each  otlier,  over  and 
over  again  ;  the  trooper  still  coupling  his  How  do  you 
do,  my  dear  old  fellow  I  "  with  his  protestation  that  he 
never  thought  his  brother  would  have  been  half  so  glad 
to  see  him  as  all  this  I 

So  far  from  it,'*  he  declares,  at  the  end  of  a  full  ac- 
count of  vrhat  has  preceded  his  arrival  there,  "  I  had 
very  little  idea  of  making  myself  known.  I  thought,  if 
you  took  by  any  means  forgivingly  to  my  name,  1  might 
gradually  get  myself  up  to  the  point  of  writing  a  letter. 
But  I  should  not  have  been  surprised,  brother,  if  you 
had  considered  it  anything  but  welcome  news  to  hear  of 
me." 

We  vfiW  show  you  at  home  what  kind  of  news  we 
think  it,  George,"  returns  his  brother.  "  This  is  a  great 
day  at  home,  and  you  could  not  have  arrived,  you 
bronzed  old  soldier,  on  a  better.  I  make  an  agreement 
with  my  son  Watt  to-day,  that  on  this  day  twelvemonth 
he  shall  marry  as  pretty  and  as  good  a  girl  as  you  have 
seen  in  all  your  travels.  She  goes  to  Germany  to-mor- 
row, with  one  of  your  nieces,  for  a  little  polishing  up  in 
her  education.  We  make  a  feast  of  the  event,  and  you 
will  be  made  the  hero  of  it.'*" 

Mr.  George  is  so  entirely  overcome  at  first  by  this  pros- 
pect, that  he  resists  the  proposed  honour  with  great- 
earnestness.  Being  overborne,  however,  by  his  brothef 
and  his  nephew — concerning  whom  he  renews  his  pro- 
testations that  he  nov  r  could  have  thought  they  would 
have  been  half  so  glad  to  see  him — he  is  taken  home  to 
an  elegant  house,  in  aP  the  arrangements  of  which  there 
is  to  be  observed  a  pleasant  mixture  of  the  originally 
simple  habits  of  the  father  and  mother,  with  such  as  are 

lit  d  to  their  ai  ered  stall  n  and  the  higher  fortunes  of 
:  h  ir  hil  'ren  Here,Mr.  G  orgp  is  much  dismayed  by  the 
gT  s  and  accomp'  shments  o1  his  nieces  that  are  ;  and 
by  thf  beau.^  o^  Rosa,  his  niece  that  is  to  be  ;  and  by 
the  affcc"''onate  .a  at  tions  of  these  young  ladies,  whicfc 
he  r(  -fives'  a  ort  .dream.  H  is  sorely  taken  aback, 
tc  V,  b  -  ^  le  lUMf  1  b.  ha  iour  oi  his  nephew  and  has  a 
wof  1  c  ns  ousn  ss  upon  him  f  being  a  scapegrace. 
F<w  ver  here  reat  rej  Icing,  and  a  very  hearty 
com^-any,  and  infini>   cnjoym    t   and  Mr.  George  comes 

luff  find  martial  thro^  ;h  it    11  i  and  his  pledge  to  be 


114  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


present  2ii  the  marri  .ge  and  give  away  the  bride,  is  re- 
ce' ved  •  ith  Jvcrsal  favour.  A  whirling  head  has  Mr. 
George  tha  ni;:  ' ,  when  ho  lies  down  in  the  state-bed 
of  }  is  rother's  ~  ouse,  to  think  of  these  things,  and 
t<  ee  th  images  of  his  ni-jes  (awfi.l  all  the  evening  in 
th  ir  floating  uslins),  waltzing,  after  the  German  man 
ner,  over  his  counterpane. 

The  brothei   are  closeted  next  morning  in  the  iron- 
master's room  ;  where  the  elder  is  proceeding,  in  his 
lear,  sensible  way,  to  sho' '  how  ho  thinks  he  may  best 
dispose  f  George  in  his  business,  when  George  squeezes 
his  hand  i^nd  sto,  ^^im. 

"  Brother,  1  thank  ,  ou  a  million  times  for  your  more 
than  brothcrl  w  Icome,  and  a  million  times  more  to  that 
for  y  ur  nore  than  brotherly  intentions.  But  my  plans 
ar  made.  P  f  c  le  T  say  a  \:orC.  as  to  them,  I  wish  to  con- 
sult you  ^pon  o:  e  family  po'  t.  Hew,"  says  the  trooper, 
f  ding  his  rms,  an.  looking  with  indomitable  firmnesc 
at  his  broth  r,  1  w  is  my  mother  to  be  got  to  scratch 
me?" 

"  I  am  not  s  e  that  I  understand  you,  George,'"  replies 
the  ironmast  •. 

"  I  say,  br  th  r,  how  is  my  mother  to  be  got  to  scratofe 
me?     he  must  be  crot  to  do  it,  somehow." 

Scr  tch  you  out  ( •  her  will,  I  think  you  mean  ?" 

"  Of  course  Id-  In  short,"  s  ys  the  trooper,  folding 
his  arms  more  resolutely  yet,  '  *  I  mean — scratch 
me?" 

'*  My  dear  Georre,"  returns  his  brother,  is  t  so  in- 
dispensable that  you  shouh"!  undergo  thcit  process?" 

**  Quite  !  Absolutely  "  I  couldn't  bo  guilty  of  the 
meanness  of  coming  back  without  it.  I  should  noverbe 
safe  not  to  be  off  again „  I  have  not  sneaked  home  to 
rob  ^our  children,  ii  not  j  urself,  brother,  of  your 
rights.  I,  who  forfeited  mine,  long  ago  I  If  I  am  to  re- 
main, and  hold  up  my  head,  I  must  be  scratched. 
Come.  You  are  a  man  of  celebrated  penetration  and 
intelligence,  and  you  can  tell  me  how  it's  to  bo  brought 
about." 

*'l  can  tell  you,  George, "  replies  the  ironmaster,  de- 
liberately, **how  it  is  not  to  be  brought  about,  which  I 
hope  may  answer  the  purpose  as  well.  Look  at  our 
mother,  think  of  her,  recall  her  emotion  when  she  re- 
covered y«u.  Do  you  believe  there  is  a  consideration  in 
the  world  that  would  induce  her  to  take  such  a  step 
against  her  favourite  son  ?  Do  you  believe  there  is  any 
chance  of  her  consent,  to  balance  against  the  outrage  it 
would  be  to  her  (loving  dear  old  lady  !)  to  propose  it?  If 
you  do,  you  are  wrong.  No,  George  !  You  must  make 
up  your  mind  to  remain  '^^7^scratched.  I  think,"  there  is 
an  amused  smile  on  the  ironmaster's  face,  as  he  watches 


BLBAK  HOUSE. 


115 


his  brother,  who  is  pondering,  deeply  disappointed,  y  J. 
think  you  may  manage  almost  as  well  as  if  the  thin^ 
were  done,  though." 
''How,  brother?" 

''  Being  bent  upon  it,  you  can  dispose  by  will  of  any- 
thing you  have  the  misfortune  to  inherit,  in  any  way  you 
like,  you  know." 

"  That's  true  I "  says  the  trooper,  pondering  again. 
Then  he  wistfully  asks,  with  his  hand  on  his  brother's, 
"  would  you  mind  mentioning  that,  brother,  to  your  wife 
and  family?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"  Thank  you.  You  wouldn't  object  to  say,  perhapi^ 
that  although  an  undoubted  vagabond,  I  am  a  vagabond 
of  the  harum  scarum  order,  and  not  of  the  mean  sort  ?  " 

The  ironmaster,  repressing  his  amused  smile,  assents. 

"  Thank  you.  Thank  you.  It's  a  weight  off  my 
mind,"  says  the  trooper,  with  a  heave  of  his  chest  as  he 
unfolds  his  arms,  and  puts  a  hand  on  each  leg  ;  "  though 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  being  scratched,  too  !  " 

The  brothers  are  very  like  each  other,  sitting  face  to 
face  ;  but  a  certain  massive  simplicity,  and  absence  of 
usage  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  is  all  on  the  trooper's 
side. 

Well,"  he  proceeds,  throwing  off  his  disappointment, 
*'  next  and  last,  those  plans  of  mine.  You  have  been  so 
brotherly  as  to  propose  to  me  to  fall  in  here,  and  take 
my  place  among  the  products  of  your  perseverance  and 
sense.  I  thank  you  heartily.  It's  more  than  brotherly, 
as  I  said  before;  and  I  thank  you  heartily  for  it,"  shaking 
him  a  long  time  by  the  hand.  "  But  the  truth  is,  brother, 
I  am  a — I  am  a  kind  of  a  Weed,  and  it's  too  late  to  plant 
me  in  a  regular  garden." 

"My  dear  George,"  returns  the  elder,  concentrating 
his  strong  steady  brow  upon  him,  and  smiling  confident- 
ly ;  "leave  that  to  me,  and  let  me  try." 

George  shakes  his  head.  "You  could  do  it,  I  have 
not  a  doubt,  if  anybody  could  ;  but  it's  not  to  be  done. 
Not  to  be  done,  sir  !  Whereas  it  so  falls  out,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  I  am  able  to  be  of  some  trifle  of  use  to 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  since  his  illness — brought  on  by 
family  sorrows  ;  and  that  he  would  rather  have  that  help 
from  our  mother's  son  than  from  anybody  else." 

"  Weil,  my  dear  George,"  returns  the  other,  with  a 
very  slight  shade  upon  his  open  face,  "  if  you  prefer  to 
serve  in  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock's  household  brigade — " 

"There  it  is,  brother!"  cries  the  trooper,  checking 
him,  with  his  hand  upon  his  knee  again  :  "  there  it  is. 
You  don't  take  kindly  to  that  idea  ;  I  don't  mind  it.  You 
are  not  used  to  being  officered  ;  I  am.  Everything  about 
you  is  in  perfect  order  and  discipline  ;  everything  about 


116  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


me  requires  to  be  kept  so.  We  are  not  accustomed  to 
carry  things  with  the  same  hand,  or  to  look  at  'em  from 
the  same  point.  I  don't  say  much  about  my  garrison 
manners,  because  I  found  myself  pretty  well  at  my  ease 
last  night,  and  they  wouldn't  be  noticed  here,  I  dare  say, 
once  and  away.  But  I  shall  get  on  best  at  Chesney  Wold 
— where  there's  more  room  for  a  Weed  than  there  is 
here  ;  and  the  dear  old  lady  will  be  made  happy  besides. 
Therefore  I  accept  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock's  proposals. 
When  I  come  over  next  year  to  give  away  the  bride,  or 
whenever  I  come,  I  shall  have  the  sense  to  keep  the 
household  brigade  in  ambuscade,  and  not  to  manoeuvre 
it  on  your  ground.  I  thank  you  heartily  again,  and  am 
proud  to  think  of  the  Rounce wells  as  they'll  be  founded 
by  you." 

"  You  know  yourself,  George,"  says  the  elder  brother, 
returning  the  grip  of  his  hand,  '*and  perhaps  you  know 
me  better  than  I  know  myself.  Take  your  way.  So 
that  we  don't  quite  lose  one  another  again,  take  your 
way." 

No  fear  of  that!"  returns  the  trooper.'  ''Now, 
before  I  turn  my  horse's  head  homeards,  brother,  I  will 
ask  you — if  you'll  be  so  good — to  look  over  a  letter  for 
me.  I  brought  it  with  me  to  send  from  these  parts,  as 
Chesney  Wold  might  be  a  painful  name  just  now  to  the 
person  it's  written  to.  I  am  not  much  accustomed  to  cor- 
respondence myself,  and  I  am  particular  respecting  this 
present  letter,  because  I  want  it  to  be  both  straightfor- 
ward and  delicate." 

Herewith  he  hands  a  letter,  closely  written  in  some- 
what pale  ink  but  in  a  neat  round  hand,  to  the  iron- 
master, who  reads  as  follows  : 

"  Miss  Esther  Summerson, 

"  A  communication  having  been  made  to  me  by  Inspector  Bucket 
ef  a  letter  to  myself  being  found  among  the  papers  of  a  certain  person, 
I  take  the  liberty  to  make  known  to  you  that  it  was  but  a  few  lines 
of  instruction  from  abroad,  when,  where,  and  how  to  deliver  an  en- 
closed letter  to  a  young  and  beautiful  lady,  then  unmarried  in  Eng- 
land.   I  duly  observed  the  same. 

I  further  take  the  liberty  to  make  known  to  you,  that  it  was  got 
from  me  as  a  proof  of  hand-writing  only,  and  that  otherwise  I  would 
not  have  given  it  up  as  appearing  to  be  the  most  harmless  in  my 
possession,  without  being  previously  shot  through  the  heart. 

"I  further  take  the  liberty  to  mention,  that  if  I  could  have  sup- 
posed a  certain  unfortunate  gentleman  to  have  been  in  existence,  I 
nevef  could  and  never  would  have  rested  until  I  had  discovered  his 
retreat,  and  shared  my  last  farthing  with  him,  as  my  duty  and  my 
inclination  would  have  equally  been .  But  he  was  (officially)  reported 
drowned,  and  assuredly  went  over  the  side  of  a  transport-ship  at 
night  in  an  Irish  harbour,  within  a  few  hours  of  her  arrival  from  the 
West  Indies,  as  I  have  myself  heard  both  from  officers  and  men  on 
board,  and  know  to  have  been  (officially)  confirmed. 

"  I  further  take  the  liberty  to  state  that  in  my  humble  quality  as 
one  of  the  rank  and  file,  I  am,  and  shall  ever  continue  to  be,  your 
thorou^bly  devoted  and  admiring  servant,  and  that  I  esteem  the 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


117 


qualities  you  possess  above  aJl  others,  far  beyond  the  limits  oftUo 
present  dispatch. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

"George." 

*' A  little  foiTQal,"  observes  tlie  elder  brother,  refold- 
ing it  with  a  puzzled  face. 

*'But  nothing  that  might  not  be  sent  to  a  pattern 
young  lady  ?  "  asks  the  younger. 

"Nothing  at  all." 

Therefore  it  is  sealed,  and  deposited  for  posting  among 
the  iron  correspondence  of  the  day.  This  done,  Mr. 
George  takes  a  hearty  farewell  of  the  family  party,  and 
prepares  to  saddle  and  mount.  His  brother,  however, 
unwilling  to  part  with  him  so  soon,  proposes  to  ride  with 
him  in  a  light  open  carriage  to  the  place  where  he  will 
bait  for  the  night,  and  there  remain  with  him  until 
morning  :  a  servant  riding,  for  so  much  of  the  journey, 
on  the  thorough -bred  old  grey  from  Chesney  Wold.  The 
offer  being  gladly  accepted,  is  followed  by  a  pleasant 
ride,  a  pleasant  dinner,  and  a  pleasant  breakfast,  all  in 
brotherly  communion.  Then  they  once  more  shake 
hands  long  and  heartily,  and  part  ;  the  ironmaster  turn- 
ing his  face  to  the  smoke  and  fires,  and  the  trooper  to 
the  green  country.  Early  in  the  afternoon,  the  subdued 
sound  of  his  heavy  military  trot  is  heard  on  the  turf  in 
in  the  avenue,  as  he  rides  on  with  imaginary  clank  and 
jingle  of  accoutrements  under  the  old  elm  trees. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

Esthei^'s  Narrative. 

Soon  after  I  had  had  that  conversation  with  my 
Guardian,  he  put  a  sealed  paper  in  my  hand  one  morning, 
and  said,  This  is  for  next  month,  my  dear."  I  found 
in  it  two  hundred  pounds. 

I  now  began  very  quietly  to  make  such  preparations 
as  I  thought  were  necessary.  Regulating  my  purchases 
by  my  Guardian's  taste,  which  I  knew  very  well  of 
course,  I  arranged  my  wardrobe  to  please  him,  and  hoped 
I  should  be  highly  successful.  I  did  it  all  so  quietly, 
because  I  was  not  quite  free  from  my  old  apprehension 
that  Ada  would  be  rather  sorry,  and  because  my  Guard- 
ian was  quiet  himself.  I  had  no  doubt  that  under  all 
the  circumstances  we  should  be  married  in  the  most  pri- 
vate and  simple  manner.  Perhaps  I  should  only  have 
to"  say  to  Ada,  Would  you  like  to  come  and  see  me 
married  to-morrow,  my  pet?"  Perhaps  our  wedding 
might  even  be  as  unpretending  as  her  own,  and  1  might 


118  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


not  find  it  necessary  to  say  anything  about  it  until  it  was 
over.  I  thought  that  if  I  were  to  choose,  I  would  like 
this  best. 

The  only  exception  I  made  was  Mrs.  Woodcourt.  I 
told  her  that  I  was  going  to  be  married  to  my  Guardian, 
and  that  we  had  been  engaged  for  some  time.  She 
highly  approved.  She  never  could  do  enough  for  me  ; 
and  was  remarkably  softened  now,  in  'comparison  with 
what  she  had  been  when  we  first  knew  her.  There  was 
no  trouble  she  would  have  not  taken  to  have  been  of  use 
to  me  ;  but  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  only  allowed  her  to 
take  as  little,  as  gratified  her  kindness  without  tasking 
it. 

Of  course  this  was  not  a  time  to  neglect  my  Guardian  ; 
and  of  course  it  was  not  a  time  for  neglecting  my  darling. 
So  I  had  plenty  of  occupation — which  I  was  glad  of  ;  and 
as  to  Charley,  she  was  absolutely  not  to  be  seen  for 
needlework.  To  surround  herself  with  great  heaps  of 
it — baskets  full  and  tables  full — and  do  a  little,  and 
spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in  staring  with  her  round 
eyes  at  what  there  was  to  do,  and  persuade  herself  that 
she  was  going  to  do  it,  were  Charley's  great  dignities 
and  delights. 

*  Meanwhile,  I  must  say  I  could  not  agree  with  my 
Guardian  on  tlie  subject  of  the  Will,  and  I  had  some 
sanguine  hopes  of  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  Which  of  us 
was  right  will  soon  appear,  but  I  certainly  did  encourage 
expectations.  In  Richard,  the  discovery  gave  occasion 
for  a  burst  of  business  and  agitation  that  buoyed  him  up 
for  a  little  time  ;  but  he  had  lost  the  elasticity  even  of 
hope  now,  and  seemed  to  me  to  retain  only  its  feverish 
anxieties.  From  something  my  Guardian  said  one  day, 
when  we  were  talking  about  this,  I  understood  that  my 
marriage  would  not  take  place  until  after  the  Term-time 
we  had  been  told  to  look  forward  to  ;  and  I  thought  the 
more,  for  that,  how  rejoiced  I  should  be  if  I  could  be 
married  when  Richard  and  Ada  were  a  little  more  pros- 
perous. 

The  Term  was  very  near  indeed,  when  my  Guardian 
was  called  out  of  fcown,  and  went  down  into  Yorkshire 
on  Mr.  Woodcourt's  business.  He  had  told  me  before- 
hand that  his  presence  there  would  be  necessary.  I  had 
just  come  in  one  night  from  my  dear  girl's,  and  was  sit- 
ting in  the  midst  of  all  my  new  clothes,  looking  at  them 
all  around  me,  and  thinking,  when  a  letter  from  my 
Guardian  was  brought  to  me.  It  asked  me  to  join  him 
in  the  country  ;  and  mentioned  by  what  stage-coach  my 
place  was  taken,  and  at  what  time  in  the  morning  I 
should  have  to  leave  town.  It  added  in  a  postscript  that 
I  would  not  be  many  hours  from  Ada. 

I  expected  few  things  less  than  a  journey  at  that  time, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


119 


6ut  I  was  ready  for  it  in  half-an-hour,  and  set  off  as  ap- 
pointed early  next  morning.  I  travelled  all  day,  won- 
dering all  day  what  I  could  be  wanted  for  at  such  a  dis- 
tance ;  now  I  thought  it  might  be  for  this  purpose,  and 
now  I  thought  it  might  be  for  that  purpose  ;  but  I  was 
never,  never,  never  near  the  truth. 

It  was  night  when  I  came  to  my  journey's  end,  and 
found  my  Guardian  waiting  for  me.  This  was  a  great 
relief,  for  towards  evening  I  had  begun  to  fear  (the  more 
so  as  his  letter  was  a  very  short  one)  that  he  might  be 
ill.  However,  there  he  was,  as  well  as  it  was  possible  to 
be  ;  and  when  I  saw  his  genial  face  again  at  its  bright- 
est and  best,  I  said  to  myself  he  has  been  doing  some 
other  great  kindness.  Not  that  it  required  much  pene- 
tration to  say  that,  because  I  knew  that  his  being  there 
at  all  was  an  act  of  kindness. 

Supper  was  ready  at  the^  hotel,  and  when  we  were 
alone  at  table  he  said  : 

Full  of  curiosity  no  doubt,  little  woman,  to  know 
why  I  have  brought  you  here? " 

**Well,  Guardian,"  said  I,  "without  thinking  myself 
a  Fatima,  or  you  a  Blue  Beard,  I  am  a  little  curious 
about  it." 

"  Then  to  ensure  your  night's  rest,  my  love,"  he  re- 
turned, gaily,  I  won't  wait  until  to-morrow  to  tell  you. 
I  have  very  much  wished  to  express  to  Woodcourt,  some- 
how, my  sense  of  his  humanity  to  poor  unfortunate  Jo, 
his  inestimable  services  to  my  young  cousins,  and  his 
value  to  us  all.  When  it  was  decided  that  he  should  set- 
tle here,  it  came  into  my  head  that  I  might  ask  his  ac- 
ceptance of  some  unpretending  and  suitable  little  place, 
to  lay  his  own  head  in.  I  therefore  caused  such  a  place 
to  be  looked  out  for,  and  such  a  place  was  found  on  very 
easy  terms,  and  I  have  been  touching  it  up  for  him  and 
making  it  habitable.  However,  when  I  walked  over  it 
the  day  before  yesterday,  and  it  was  reported  ready,  I 
found  that  I  was  not  housekeeper  enough  to  know 
whether  things  were  all  as  they  ought  to  be.  So  I  sent 
off  for  the  best  little  housekeeper  that  could  possibly  be 
got,  to  come  and  give  me  her  advice  and  opinion.  And 
here  she  is,"  said  my  Guardian,  ''laughing  and  crying 
both  together  ! ' ' 

Because  he  was  so  dear,  so  good,  so  admirable.  I  tried 
to  tell  him  what  I  thought  of  him,  but  I  could  not  artic- 
ulate a  word. 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  my  Guardian,  "You  make  too 
much  of  it,  little  woman.  Why  how  you  sob.  Dame 
Durden,  how  you  sob  ! " 

"It  is  with  exquisite  pleasure,  Guardian — with  a 
heart  full  of  thanks." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he.    "I  am  delighted  that  you  ap- 


120 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


prove.  I  thouglit  you  would.  I  meant  it  as  a  pleasant 
surprise  for  the  little  mistress  of  Bleak  House." 

I  kissed  him,  and  dried  my  eyes.  know  now  !  " 
said  I.    "I  have  seen  tljis  in  your  face  a  long,  while." 

"No  ;  have  you  really,  my  dear?"  said  he.  What 
a  Dame  Burden  it  is  to  read  a  face  I " 

He  was  so  quaintly  cheerful  that  I  could  not  long  be 
otherwise,  and  was  almost  ashamed  of  having  been 
otherwise  at  all.  When  I  went  to  bed,  I  cried.  I  am 
bound  to  confess  that  I  cried  ;  but  I  hope  it  was  with 
pleasure,  though  I  am  not  quite  sure  it  was  with  pleas- 
ure.   I  repeated  every  word  of  the  letter  twice  over. 

A  most  beautiful  summer  morning  succeeded  ;  and 
after  breakfast  we  went  out  arm  in  arm,  to  see  the  house 
of  which  I  was  to  give  my  mighty  housekeeping  opinion. 
We  entered  a  flower-garden  by  a  gate  in  a  side  wall,  of 
which  he  had  the  key  ;  and  the  first  thing  I  saw,  was, 
that  the  beds  and  flowers  were  all  laid  out  according  to 
the  manner  of  my  beds  and  flowers  at  home. 

''You  see,  my  dear,"  observed  my  Guardian,  standing 
still,  with  a  delighted  face,  to  watch  my  looks  ;  ''know- 
ing  there  could  be  no  better  plan,  I  borrowed  yours." 

We  went  on  by  a  pretty  little  orchard,  where  the  cher- 
ries were  nestling  among  the  green  leaves,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  apple-trees  were  sporting  on  the  grass, 
to  the  house  itself, — a  cottage,  quite  a  rustic  cottage  of 
dolFs  rooms  ;  but  such  a  lovely  place,  so  tranquil  and  so 
beautiful,  with  such  a  rich  and  smiling  country  spread 
around  it  ;  with  water  sparkling  away  into  the  distance, 
here  all  overhung  with  summer  growth,  there  turning  a 
humming-mill  ;  at  its  nearest  point  glancing  through  a 
meadow  by  the  cheerful  town,  where  cricket-players 
were  assembling  in  bright  groups,  and  a  flag  was  flying 
from  a  white  tent  that  rippled  in  the  sweet  west  wind. 
And  still,  as  we  went  through  the  pretty  rooms,  out  at 
the  little  rustic  verandah  doors,  and  underneath  the  tiny 
wooden  colonades,  garlanded  with  woodbine,  jasmine, 
and  honeysuckle,  I  saw  in  the  papering  on  the  walls,  in 
the  colours  of  the  furniture,  in  the  arrangement  of  all 
the  pretty  objects  my  little  tastes  and  fancies,  my  little 
methods  and  inventions  which  they  used  to  laugh  at 
while  they  praised  them,  my  odd  ways  everywhere. 

I  could  not  say  enough  in  admiration  of  what  was  all 
so  beautiful,  but  one  secret  doubt  arose  in  my  mind, 
when  I  saw  this.  I  thought,  O  would  he  be  the  happier 
for  it !  Would  it  not  have  been  better  for  his  peace 
that  I  should  not  have  been  so  brought  before  him  ?  Be- 
cause, although  I  was  not  what  he  thought  me,  still  he 
loved  me  very  dearly,  and  it  might  remind  him  mourn- 
fully of  what  he  believed  he  had  lost.  I  did  not  wish 
him  to  forget  me, — perhaps  he  might  not  have  done  so. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


121 


without  these  aids  to  his  memory, — but  my  way  was 
easier  tlian  his,  and  I  could  have  reconciled  myself  even 
to  that,  so  that  he  had  been  made  the  liappier  for  it. 

And  now,  little  woman,"  said  my  Guardian,  whom  I 
had  never  seen  so  proud  and  joyful  as  in  showing  me 
these  things,  and  watching  my  appreciation  of  them, 
"  now,  last  of  all,  for  the  name  of  this  house." 
What  is  it  called,  dear  Guardian  ?  " 
'*My  child,"  said  he,  "  come  and  see." 
He  took  me  to  the  porch,  which  he  had  hitherto 
avoided,  and  said,  pausing  before  we  went  out  : 
My  dear  child,  don't  you  guess  the  name  ?" 
''No  !"  said  I. 

We  went  out  of  the  porch  ;  and  he  showed  me  written 
over  it.  Bleak  House. 

He  led  me  to  a  seat  among  the  leaves  close  by,  and 
sitting  down  beside  me,  and  taking  my  hand  in  his, 
spoke  to  me  thus : 

**  My  darling  girl,  in  what  there  has  been  between  us, 
I  have,  1  hope,  been  really  solicitous  for  your  happiness. 
When  I  wrote  you  the  letter  to  which  you  brought  the 
answer,"  smiling  as  he  referred  to  it,  *'I  had  my  own 
too  much  in  view  ;  but  I  had  yours  too.  Whether,  under 
different  circumstances,  I  might  ever  have  renewed  the 
old  dream  I  sometimes  dreamed  when  you  were  very 
young,  of  making  you  my  wife  one  day,  I  need  not  ask 
myself.  I  did  renew  it,  and  I  wrote  my  letter,  and  v:,a 
brought  your  answer.  You  are  following  what  ^  say, 
my  child?" 

I  was  cold,  and  I  trembled  violently  ;  bu'^.  not  a  word 
he  uttered  was  lost.  As  I  sat  looking  fixedly  at  hir.., 
and  the  sun's  rays  descended^  softly  shining  through  the 
leaves,  upon  his  bare  head,  I  felt  as  if  the  bright^.dss  on 
him  must  be  like  the  brightness  of  the  Angels. 

Hear  me,  my  love,  but  do  not  speak.  It  is  for  me  to 
speak  now.  When  it  was  that  I  began  to  doubt  whether 
what  I  had  done  would  really  make  you  happy,  is  no 
matter.  Woodcourt  came  home,  and  I  soon  had  no  doubt 
at  all." 

I  clasped  him  round  the  neck,  and  hung  my  head  upon 
his  breast,  and  wept.  "  Lie  lightly,  confidently,  here, 
my  child,"  said  he,  pressing  me  gently  to  him.  "  I  am 
your  Guardian  and  your  father  now.  Rest  confidingly 
here." 

Soothingly,  like  the  gentle  rustling  of  the  leaves  ;  and 
genially,  like  the  ripening  weather  ;  and  radiantly  and 
beneficently,  like  the  sunshine  ;  he  went  on. 

"  Understand  me,  my  dear  girl.  I  had  no  doubt  of 
your  being  contented  and  happy  with  me,  being  so  duti- 
ful and  so  devoted  ;  but  I  saw  with  whom  you  would  be 
happier.    That  I  penetrated  his  secret  when  Dame  Dur- 


12S  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


den  was  blind  to  it,  is  no  wonder  ;  for  I  knew  the  good 
that  could  never  change  in  her,  better  far  than  she  did. 
Well  !  I  have  long  been  in  Allan  Woodcourt's  confi- 
dence, although  he  was  not,  until  yesterday,  a  few  hours 
before  you  came  here,  in  mine.  But  I  would  not  have 
my  Esther's  briglit  example  lost ;  I  would  not  have  a 
jot  of  my  dear  girl's  virtues  unobserved  and  unhonoured  ; 
I  would  not  have  her  admitted  on  sufferance  into  the  line 
of  Morgan  ap  Kerrig,  no,  not  for  the  weight  in  gold  of 
all  the  mountains  in  Wales  !  " 

He  stopped  to  kiss  me  on  the  forehead,  and  I  sobbed 
and  wept  afresh.  For  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  bear  the 
painful  delight  of  his  praise. 

Hush,  little  woman  1  Don't  cry  ;  this  is  to  be  a  day 
of  joy.  I  have  looked  forward  to  it,"  he  said,  exultingly, 

for  months  on  months  !  A  few  words  more.  Dame 
Trot,  and  I  have  said  my  say.  Determined  not  to  throw 
away  one  atom  of  my  Esther's  worth,  I  took  Mrs.  Wood- 
court  into  a  separate  confidence.  *  Now,  madam,'  said  I, 
'  I  clearly  perceive — and  indeed  I  know,  to  boot — that 
your  son  loves  my  ward.  I  am  further  very  sure  that 
my  ward  loves  your  son,  but  will  sacrifice  her  love  to  a 
sense  of  duty  and  affection,  and  will  sacrifice  it  so  com- 
pletely, so  entirely,  so  religiously,  that  you  should  never 
suspect  it,  though  you  watched  her  night  and  day.' 
Then  I  told  her  all  our  story — ours — yours  and  mine. 
*Now,  madam,'  said  I,  *  come  you,  knowing  this,  and 
live  with  us.  Come  you,  and  see  my  child  from  hour  to 
^hour  ;  set  what  you  see,  against  her  pedigree,  which  is 
this,  and  this ' — ^for  I  scorned  to  mince  it — *  and  tell  me 
what  is  the  true  legitimacy,  when  you  shall  have  quite 
made  up  your  mind  on  that  subject.'  Why,  honour  to 
her  old  Welsh  blood,  my  dear  ! "  cried  my  Guardian, 
with  enthusiasm,  I  believe  the  heart  it  animates  beats 
no  less  warmly,  no  less  admiringly,  no  less  lovingly,  to- 
wards Dame  Durden,  than  my  own  ! " 

He  tenderly  raised  my  head,  and  as  I  clung  to  him, 
kissed  me  in  his  old  fatherly  way  again  and  again. 
What  a  light,  now,  on  the  protecting  manner  I  had 
thought  about ! 

One  more  last  word.  When  Allan  Wood  court  spoke 
to  you,  my  dear,  he  spoke  with  my  knowledge  and  con- 
sent— but  I  gave  him  no  encouragement,  not  I,  for  these 
surprises  were  my  great  reward,  and  I  was  too  miserly 
to  part  with  a  scrap  of  it.  He  was  to  come,  and  tell  me 
all  that  passed  ;  and  he  did.  I  have  no  more  to  say. 
My  dearest,  Allan  Woodcourt  stood  beside  your  father 
when  he  lay  dead — stood  beside  your  mother.  This  is 
Bleak  House.  This  day  I  give  this  house  its  little  mis- 
tress ;  and  before  God,  it  is  the  brightest  day  in  all  my 
life  I  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


123 


He  rose  and  raised  me  with  him.  We  were  no  longer 
alone.  My  husband — I  have  called  him  by  that  name 
full  seven  happy  years  now — stood  at  my  side. 

Allan,"  said  my  Guardian,  take  from  me,  a  willing 
gift,  the  best  wife  that  ever  a  man  had.  What  more 
can  I  say  for  you  than  that  I  know  you  deserve  her  ! 
Take  with  her  the  little  home  she  brings  you.  You 
know  what  she  will  make  it,  Allan  ;  you  know  what  she 
has  made  its  namesake.  Let  me  share  its  felicity  some- 
times, and  what  do  I  sacrifice  ?    Nothing,  nothing." 

He  kissed  me  once  again  ;  and  now  the  tears  were  in 
his  eyes,  as  he  said  more  softly  : 

"Esther,  my  dearest,  after  so  many  years,  there  is  a 
kind  of  parting  in  this  too.  I  know  that  my  mistake  has 
caused  you  some  distress.  Forgive  your  old  Guardian, 
In  restoring  him  to  his  old  place  in  your  affections  ;  and 
blot  it  out  of  your  memory.    Allan,  take  my  dear  V 

He  moved  away  from  under  the  green  roof  of  leaves, 
stopping  in  the  sunlight  outside,  and  turning  cheerfully 
towards  us,  said  : 

I  shall  be  found  about  here  somewhere.  It's  a  West 
wind,  little  woman,  due  West  !  Let  no  one  thank  me 
any  more  ;  for  I  am  going  to  revert  to  my  bachelor  hab- 
its, and  if  anybody  disregards  this  warning,  I'll  run 
away  and  never  come  back  !  " 

What  happiness  was  ours  that  day,  what  joy,  what 
rest,  what  hope,  what  gratitude,  what  bliss  !  We  were 
to  be  married  befor3  the  month  was  out  ;  but  when  we 
w^ere  to  come  and  take  possession  of  our  own  house,  was 
to  depend  on  Richard  and  Ada. 

We  all  three  went  home  together  next  day.  As  soon  as  we 
arrived  in  town,  Allan  went  straight  to  see  Richard,  and 
to  carry  our  joyful  news  to  him  and  my  darling.  Late 
as  it  was,  I  meant  to  go  to  her  for  a  few  minutes  before 
lying  down  to  sleep  ;  but  I  went  home  with  my  Guardian 
first,  to  make  his  tea  for  him,  and  to  occupy  the  old 
chair  by  his  side  ;  for  I  did  not  like  to  think  of  its  being 
empty  so  soon. 

When  we  came  home,  we  found  that  a  young  man  had 
called  three  times  in  the  course  of  that  one  day,  to  see 
me  ;  and  that,  having  been  told,  on  the  occasion  of  his 
third  call,  than  I  was  not  expected  to  return  before  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  he  had  left  word,  *'that  he  would  call 
about  then."    He  had  left  his  card  three  times.  Mr. 

GUPPY. 

As  I  naturally  speculated  on  the  object  of  these  visits, 
and  as  I  always  associated  something  ludicrous  with  the 
visitor,  it  fell  out  that  in  laughing  about  Mr.  Guppy  I 
told  my  Guardian  of  his  old  proposal,  and  his  subsequent 
retraction,       After  that,"  said  my  Guardian,  **  we  wil 


134  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


certainly  receive  this  hero.*'  So,  instructions  were  given 
that  Mr.  Guppy  should  be  shown  in,  when  he  came  again  j 
and  they  were  scarcely  given  when  he  did  come  again. 

He  was  embarrassed  when  he  found  my  Guardian  with 
me,  but  recovered  himself,  and  said,  How  de  do, 
sir  ?  " 

How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  returned  my  Guardian. 

Thank  you,  sir,  I  am  tolerable,"  returned  Mr.  Guppy„ 
Will  you  allow  me  to  introduce  my  mother,  Mrs. 
Guppy  of  the  Old  Street  Road,  and  my  particular  friend, 
Mr.  Weevle.  That  is  to  say,  my  friend  has  gone  by  the 
name  of  Weevle,  but  his  name  is  really  and  truly  Job- 
ling." 

My  Guardian  begged  them  to  be  seated ,  and  they  all 
sat  down. 

**  Tony,"  said  Mr.  Guppy  to  his  friend,  after  an  awk- 
ward silence.       Will  you  open  the  case  ?  " 

Do  it  yourself,"  returned  the  friend,  rather  tartly. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  sir,"  Mr.  Guppy,  after  a  mo- 
ment's consideration,  began  ;  to  the  great  diversion  of 
his  mother,  which  she  displayed  by  nudging  Mr.  Job- 
ling  with  her  elbow,  and  winking  at  me  in  a  most  re- 
markable manner;  **I  had  an  idea  that  I  should  see 
Miss  Summerson  by  herself,  and  was  not  quite  prepared 
for  your  esteemed  presence.  But  Miss  Summerson  has 
mentioned  to  you,  perhaps,  that  something  has  passed 
between  us  on  former  occasions  ?  " 

''Miss  Summerson,"  returned  my  Guardian  smiling, 

has  made  a  communication  to  that  effect  to  me." 

"  That,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  makes  matters  easier. 
Sir,  I  have  come  out  of  my  articles  at  Kenge  and  Car- 
boy's, and  I  believe  with  satisfaction  to  all  parties.  I 
am  now  admitted  (after  undergoing  an  examination 
that's  enough  to  badger  a  man  blue,  touching  a  pack  of 
nonsense  that  he  don't  want  to  know)  on  the  roll  of  at= 
torneys,  and  have  taken  out  my  certificate,  if  it  would 
be  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  see  it. " 

Thank  you,  Mr.  Guppy."  returned  my  Guardian, 
''I  am  quite  willing — I  believe  I  use  a  legal  phrase — to 
admit  the  certificate." 

Mr.  Guppy  therefore  desisted  from  taking  something 
out  of  his  pocket,  and  proceeded  without  it. 

I  have  no  capital  myself,  but  my  mother  has  a  little 
property  which  takes  the  form  of  an  annuity  ; "  here  Mr, 
Guppy's  mother  rolled  her  head  as  if  she  never  could 
sufficiently  enjoy  the  observation,  and  put  her  handker- 
chief to  her  mouth,  and  again  winked  at  me  ;  and  a 
few  pounds  for  expenses  out  of  pocket  in  conducting 
business,  will  never  be  wanting,  free  of  interest,  which 
is  an  advantage,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  feelingly. 
Certainly  an  advantage,"  returned  my  Guardian. 


BLEAK  HOUSE, 


125 


"  I  havie  .some  connexion,"  pursued  Mr.  Guppy,  and  ifc 
lays  in  the  direction  of  Walcot  Square,  Lambeth.  I 
have  therefore  taken  a  ouse  in  that  locality,  which,  in 
the  opinion  of  my  friends,  is  a  hollow  bargain  (taxes 
ridiculous,  and  use  of  fixtures  included  in  the  rent),  and 
intend  setting  up  professionally  for  myself  there,  forth- 
with." 

Here  Mr.  Guppy 's  mother  fell  into  an  extraordinary 
passion  of  rolling  her  head,  and  smiling  waggishly  at 
anybody  who  would  look  at  her. 

*'It's  a  six  roomer,  exclusive  of  kitchens,"  said  Mr. 
Guppy,  "and  in  the  opinion  of  my  friends,  a  commo- 
dious tenement.  When  I  mention  my  friends,  I  refer 
principally  to  my  friend  Jobling,  who  I  believe  has 
known  me,"  Mr.  Guppy  looked  at  him  with  a  sentimen- 
tal air,     from  boyhood's  hour  ?  " 

Mr.  Jobling  confirmed  this  with  a  sliding  movement 
of  his  legs. 

"  My  friend  Jobling  will  render  me  his  assistance  in 
the  capacity  of  clerk,  and  will  live  in  the  ouse,"  said 
Mr.  Guppy.  "  My  mother  will  likewise  live  in  the  ouse, 
when  her  present  quarter  in  the  Old  Street  Road  shall 
have  ceased  and  expired  ;  and  consequently  there  will 
be  no  want  of  society.  My  friend  Jobling  is  naturally 
aristocratic  by  taste  ;  and  besides  being  acquainted  with 
the  movements  of  the  upper  circles,  fully  backs  me  in 
the  intentions  I  am  now  developing." 

Mr.  Jobling  said    certainly,"  and  withdrew  a  little 
from  the  elbow  of  Mr.  Guppy's  mother. 

Now,  I  have  no  occasion  to  mention  to  you,  sir,  you 
being  in  the  confidence  of  Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr. 
Guppy,  (mother,  I  wish  you'd  be  so  good  as  to  keep 
still),  that  Miss  Summerson's  image  was  formerly  im- 
printed on  my  art,  and  that  I  made  lier  a  proposal  of 
marriage." 

"That  I  have  heard,"  returned  my  Guardian. 
Circumstances,"  pursued  Mr.  Guppy,     over  which 

had  no  control  but  quite  the  contrary,  weakened  the 
impression  of  that  image  for  a  time.  At  which  time. 
Miss  Summerson's  conduct  w^as  highly  genteel  ;  I  may 
even  add,  magnanimous." 

My  Guardian  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  seemed 
much  amused. 

'*Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  *'Ihave  got  into  tha* 
state  of  mind  myself,  that  I  wish  for  a  reciprocity  of 
magnanimous  behaviour.  I  vrish  to  prove  to  Miss  Sum» 
merson  that  I  can  rise  to  a  height,  of  which  perhaps  she 
hardly  thought  me  capable.  I  find  that  the  image  which 
I  did  suppose  had  been  eradicated  from  my  art,  is  not  * 
eradicated.  It's  influence  over  me  is  still  tremenjous  ; 
and  yielding  to  it  I  am  willing  to  overlook  the  circum- 


126 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Stances  over  whicli  none  of  us  liave  liad  any  control,  and 
to  renew  those  proposals  to  Miss  Summerson  which  I 
had  the  honour  to  make  at  a  former  period.  I  beg  to 
lay  the  ouse  in  Walcot  Square,  the  business,  and  myself, 
before  Miss  Summerson  for  her  acceptance." 

Very  magnanimous,  indeed,  sir,"  observed  my  Guard- 
ian. 

Well,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Guppy,  with  candour,  ''my 
wish  is  to  he  magnanimous.  I  do  not  consider  that  in 
making  this  offer  to  Miss  Summerson,  I  am  by  any  means 
throwing  myself  away  ;  neither  is  that  the  opinion  of  my 
friends.  Still  there  are  circumstances  which  I  submit 
may  be  taken  into  account  as  a  set-off  against  any  little 
drawbacks  of  mine,  and  so  a  fair  and  equitable  balance 
arrived  at." 

I  take  upon  myself,  sir,"  said  my  Guardian,  laugh- 
ing as  he  rang  the  bell,  "  to  reply  to  your  proposals  on 
behalf  of  Miss  Summerson.  She  is  very  sensible  of  your 
handsome  intentions,  and  wishes  you  good  evening,  and 
wishes  you  well." 

*'0h  !  "  said  Mr.  Guppy,  with  a  blank  look.  '*  Is  that 
tantamount,  sir,  to  acceptance,  or  rejection,  or  consider- 
ation ?  " 

''To  decided  rejection,  if  you  please,"  returned  my 
Guardian, 

Mr.  Guppy  looked  incredulously  at  his  friend,  and  at 

his  mother,  who  suddenly  turned  very  angry,  and  at  the 
floor,  and  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Indeed  'l  "  said  he.  "  Then,  Jobling,  if  you  vras  the 
friend  you  represent  yourself,  I  should  think  you  might 
hand  my  mother  out  of  the  gangway,  instead  of  allowing 
her  to  remain  w^here  she  ain't  wanted." 

But  Mrs.  Guppy  positively  refused  to  come  out  of  the 
gangway.  She  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  "  Why,  get  along 
with  you,"  said  she  to  my  Guardian,  "  what  do  you 
mean  V  Ain't  my  son  good  enough  for  you  ?  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.    Get  out  with  you  !  " 

"My  good  lady!"  returned  my  Guardian,  "it  is 
hardly  reasonable  to  ask  me  to  get  out  of  my  own  room." 

"  I  don't  care  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Guppy.  "  Get  out 
with  you.  If  we  ain't  good  enough  for  you,  go  and  pro- 
cure somebody  that  is  good  enough.  Go  along  and  find 
'em." 

I  was  quite  unprepared  for  the  rapid  manner  in  which 
Mrs.  Guppy's  power  of  jocularity  merged  into  a  power  of 
taking  the  profoundest  offence. 

"Go  along  and  find  somebody  that  is  good  enough  for 
you,"  repeated  Mrs.  Guppy.  "Get  out!"  Nothing 
seemed  to  astonish  Mr.  Guppy's  mother  so  much,  and  to 
make  her  so  very  indignant,  as  our  not  getting  out. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Why  don't  you  get  out  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Guppy.  '  What 
are  you  stopping  here  for? 

Mother/'  interposed  her  son,  always  getting  before 
her,  and  pushing  her  back  with  one  shoulder,  as  she 
sidled  at  my  Guardian,  "will  you  hold  your  tongue  ?  " 

"  No,  William/'  she  returned  ;  I  won't  I  not  unless  he 
gets  out,  I  won't  !  " 

However,  Mr.  Guppy  and  Mr.  Jobling  together  closed 
on  Mr.  Guppy's  mother  (who  began  to  be  quite  abusive), 
and  took  her,  very  much  against  her  will,  down-stairs  ; 
her  voice  rising  a  stair  higher  every  time  her  figure  got 
a  stair  lower,  and  insisting  that  we  should  immediately 
go  and  find  somebody  who  was  good  enough  for  us,  and 
above  all  things  that  we  should  get  out. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

Beginning  the  World. 

The  term  had  commened,  and  my  Guardian  found  an 
intimation  from  Mr.  Kenge  that  the  Cause  would  come 
on  in  two  days.  As  I  had  sufficient  hopes  of  the  will  to 
be  in  a  flutter  about  it,  Allan  and  I  agreed  to  go  down  to 
the  Court  that  morning.  Richard  was  extremely  agi- 
tated, and  was  so  weak  and  low,  though  his  illness  was 
still  of  the  mind,  that  my  dear  girl  indeed  had  sore  occa- 
sion to  be  supported.  But  she  looked  forward — a  very 
little  way  now — to  the  help  that  was  to  come  to  her,  and 
never  drooped. 

It  was  at  Westminister  that  the  Cause  w^as  to  come  on. 
It  had  come  on  there,  I  dare  say,  a  hundred  times  be- 
fore, but  I  could  not  divest  myself  of  an  idea  that  it 
might  lead  to  some  result  now.  We  left  home  directly 
after  breakfast,  to  be  at  Westminister  Hall  in  good  time  ; 
and  walked  down  there  through  the  lively  streets — so 
happily  and  strangely  it  seemed  ! — together. 

As  we  were  going  along,  planning  what  we  should  do 
for  Richard  and  Ada,  I  heard  somebody  calling  Esther  ! 
My  dear  Esther  !  Esther  !"  And  there  was  Caddy  Jelly- 
by,  with  her  head  out  of  the  window^  of  a  little  carriage 
which  she  hired  now  to  go  about  in  to  her  pupils  (she 
had  so  many),  as  if  she  wanted  to  embrace  me  at  a  hun- 
dred yards'  distance.  I  had  written  her  a  note  to  tell 
her  of  all  that  my  Guardian  had  done,  but  had  not  had 
a  moment  to  go  and  see  her.  Of  course  we  turned  back  ; 
and  the  affectonate  girl  was  in  that  state  of  rapture,  and 
was  so  overjoyed  to  talk  about  the  night  when  she 
brought  me  the  flowers,  and  was  so  determined  to  squeeze 
my  ^ce  (bonnet  and  all)  between  her  hands,  and  go  on 


128 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  a  wild  manner  altogether,  calling  me  all  kinds  of  pre. 
cious  names,  and  telling  Allan  I  had  done  I  don't  know 
what  for  her,  that  I  was  just  obliged  to  get  into  the  lit- 
tle carriage  and  calm  her  down,  bj  letting  her  say  and 
do  exactly  what  she  liked.  Allan,  standing  at  the  win- 
dow, was  as  pleased  as  Caddy  ;  and  I  was  as  pleased  as 
either  of  them  ;  and  I  wonder  that  I  got  away  as  I  did» 
rather  than  that  I  came  off,  laughing,  and  red,  and  any- 
thing but  tidy,  and  looking  after  Caddy,  who  looked 
after  us  out  of  the  coach- window  as  long  as  she  could 
see  us. 

This  made  us  some  quarter  of  an  hour  late,  and  when 
we  came  to  Westminster  Hall  we  found  that  the  day's 
business  was  begun.  Worse  than  that,  we  found  such 
an  unusual  crowd  in  the  Court  of  Chancery  that  it  was 
full  to  the  door,  and  we  could  neither  see  nor  hear  what 
was  passing  within.  It  appeared  to  be  something  droll, 
for  occasionally  there  was  a  laugh,  and  a  cry  of  '  *  Silence ! " 
It  appeared  to  be  something  interesting,  for  every  one 
was  pushing  and  striving  to  get  nearer.  It  appeared  to 
be  something  that  made  the  professional  gentlemen  very 
merry,  for  there  were  several  young  counsellors  in  wigs 
and  whiskers  on  the  outside  of  the  crowd,  and  when  one 
of  them  told  the  others  about  it,  they  put  their  hands  in 
their  pockets,  and  quite  doubled  themselves  up  with 
laughter,  and  went  stamping  about  the  pavement  of  the 
hall. 

We  asked  a  gentleman  by  us,  if  he  knew  what  cause 
was  on  ?  He  told  us  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  We  asked 
him  if  he  knew  what  was  doing  in  it  ?  He  said,  really 
no  he  did  not,  nobody  ever  did  ;  but  as  well  as  he  could 
make  out,  it  was  over.  Over  for  the  day  ?  we  asked  him. 
No,  he  said  ;  over  for  good. 

Over  for  good  ! 

When  we  heard  this  unaccountable  answer,  we  looked 
at  one  another  quite  lost  in  amazement.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  the  Will  had  set  things  right  at  last,  and 
that  Richard  and  Ada  were  going  to  be  rich  ?  It  seemed 
too  good  to  be  true.    Alas,  it  was  I 

Our  suspense  was  short ;  for  a  break  up  soon  took  place 
in  the  crowd,  and  the  people  came  streaming  out  looking 
flushed  and  hot,  and  bringing  a  quantity  of  bad  air  with 
them.  Still  they  were  all  exceedingly  amused,  and 
were  more  like  people  coming  out  from  a  Farce  or  a 
Juggler  than  from  a  court  of  Justice.  We  stood  aside, 
watching  for  any  countenance  we  knew  ;  and  presently 
great  bundles  of  paper  began  to  be  carried  out — bundles 
in  bags,  bundles  too  large  to  be  got  into  any  bags,  im- 
mense masses  of  papers  of  all  shapes  and  no  shapes,  which 
the  bearers  staggered  under,  and  threw  down  for  the 
time  being,  anyhow,  on  the  Hall  pavement,  while  they 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


129 


went  back  to  bring  out  more.  Even  these  clerks  were 
laughing.  We  glanced  at  these  papers,  and  seeing  Jarn- 
dyce  and  Jarndyce  everywhere,  asked  an  official-looking 
person  who  was  standing  in  the  midst  of  them,  whether 
the  cause  was  over.  *'Yes,"  he  said;  **itwas  all  up 
with  it  at  last !  "  and  burst  out  laughing  too. 

At  this  juncture,  we  perceived  Mr.  Kenge  coming  out 
of  court  with  an  alfable  dignity  upon  him,  listening  to 
Mr.  Vholes,  who  was  deferential,  and  carried  his  own 
bag.  Mr.  Vholes  was  the  first  to  see  us.  Here  is 
Miss  Summerson,  sir,"  he  said.      And  Mr.  Woodcourt.*' 

**0,  indeed  !  Yes.  Truly  1"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  raising 
his  hat  to  me  with  polished  politeness.  ''How  do  you 
do  ?   Glad  to  see  you.    Mr.  Jarndyce  is  not  herd  ?  " 

No.    He  never  came  there,  I  reminded  him, 

**  Really,"  returned  Mr.  Kenge,  ''it  is  as  well  that  he 
is  nothare  to-day,  for  his — sliall  1  say,  in  my  good  friend's 
absence,  his  indomitable  singularity  of  opinion? — might 
have  been  strengthened,  perhaps  ;  not  reasonably,  but 
might  have  been  strengthened." 

**  Pray  what  has  been  done  to-day  ?"  asked  Allan. 

**I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  with  excessive  , 
urbanity. 

"  What  has  been  done  to-day  ?  " 

"  What  has  T>een  done,"  repeated  Mr.  Kenge.  "  Quite 
so.  Yes.  Why,  not  much  has  been  done  ;  not  much. 
We  have  been  checked — brought  up  suddenly,  I  would 
say — upon  the — shall  I  term  it  threshold  ?  " 

"Is  this  Will  considered  a  genuine  document,  sir?" 
said  Allan  ;  "  will  you  tell  us  that  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly,  if  I  could,"  said  Mr.  Kenge  ;  "  but 
we  have  not  gone  into  that,  we  have  not  gone  into  that." 

*'  We  have  not  gone  into  that,"  repeated  Mr.  Vholes, 
as  if  his  low  inward  voice  were  an  echo. 

"  You  are  to  reflect,  Mr.  Wood  court,"  observed  Mr. 
Kenge,  using  his  silver  trowel,  persuasively  and  smooth- 
ingly,  ' '  that  this  has  been  a  great  cause,  that  this  has 
been  a  protracted  cause,  that  this  has  been  a  complex 
cause.  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  has  been  termed,  not  in* 
aptly,  a  Monument  of  Chancery  practice." 

"And  Patience  has  sat  upon  it  a  long  time,"  said 
Allan. 

"  Very  well  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Kenge,  with  a 
certain  condescending  laugh  he  had.  "Very  well  !  You 
are  further  to  reflect,  Mr.  Woodcourt,"  becoming  digni- 
fied to  severity,  "  that  on  the  numerous  difficulties,  con- 
tingencies, masterly  fictions,  and  forms  of  procedure 
in  this  great  cause,  there  has  been  expended  study, 
ability,  eloquence,  knowledge,  intellect,  Mr.  Woodcourt^ 
high  intellect.  For  many  years,  the— a — I  would  say 
the  flower  of  the  Bar,  and  the — a — I  would  presume  to 
EE  Vol.  18 


130 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


add,  the  matured  autumnal  fruits  of  the  Woolsack — 
have  been  lavished  upon  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  If  the 
public  have  the  benefit,  and  if  the  country  have  the 
adornment,  of^this  great  Grasp,  it  must  be  paid  for,  in 
money  or  money's  worth,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Kenge,"  said  Allan,  appearing  enlightened  all 
in  a  moment.  Excuse  me,  our  time  presses.  Do  I  un- 
der stand  that  the  whole  estate  is  found  to  have  been  ab' 
sorbed  in  costs  ?  " 

*'HemI  I  believe  so,"  returned  Mr.  Kenge.  Mr. 
Vholes,  what  do  you  say?" 

1  believe  so,"  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

"And  that  thus  the  suit  lapses  and  melts  away?" 

"Probably,"  returned  Mr.  Kenge.    "Mr.  Vholes?" 

"Probably,"  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

"My  dearest  life,"  whispered  Allan,  "this  will  break 
Richard's  heart  !  " 

There  was  such  a  shock  of  apprehension  in  his  face, 
and  he  knew  Richard  so  perfectly,  and  I  too  had  seen  so 
much  of  his  gradual  decay,  that  what  my  dear  girl  had 
said  to  me  in  the  fulness  of  her  foreboding  love,  sounded 
like  a  knell  in  my  ears. 

"  In  case  you  should  he  wanting  Mr.  C,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Vholes,  coming  after  us,  "you'll  find  him  in  court.  I 
left  him  there  resting  himself  a  little.  Good  day,  sir  ; 
good  day.  Miss  Summerson."  As  he  gave  me  that  slowly 
devouring  look  of  his,  while  twisting  up  the  strings  of 
his  bag,  before  he  hastened  with  it,  after  Mr.  KengCj 
the  benignant  shadow  of  whose  conversational  presence 
he  seemed  afraid  to  leave,  he  gave  one  gasp  as  if  he  had 
swallowed  the  last  morsel  of  this  client,  and  his  black 
buttoned-up  unwholesome  figure  glided  away  to  the  low 
door  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

My  dear  love,"  said  Allan,  "leave  to  me  for  a  little 
while,  the  charge  you  gave  me.  Go  home  with  this  in- 
telligence, and  come  to  Ada's  by-and-by." 

I  would  not  let  him  take  me  to  a  coach,  but  entreated 
him  to  go  to  Richard  without  a  moment's  delay,  and 
leave  me  to  do  as  he  wished.  Hurrying  home,  I  found 
my  Guardian,  and  told  him  gradually  with  what  news  I 
had  returned.  "  Little  woman,"  said  he,  quite  unmoved 
for  himself,  "  to  have  done  with  the  suit  on  any  terms, 
is  a  greater  blessing  than  I  had  looked  for.  But  my  poor 
young  cousins  ! " 

We  talked  about  them  all  the  morning,  and  discussed 
what  it  was  possible  to  do.  In  'the  afternoon,  my  Guard- 
ian walked  with  me  to  Symond's  Inn,  and  left  me  at  the 
door.  I  went  up-stairs.  When  my  darling  heard  my 
footsteps,  she  came  out  into  the  small  passage  and  threw 
her  arms  round  my  neck  ;  but  she  composed  herself  di- 
rectly, and  said  that  Richard  had  asked  for  me  several 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


131 


times.  Allan  had  found  him  sitting  in  a  corner  of  tlie 
court,  she  told  me,  like  a  stone  figure.  On  being  roused, 
he  had  broken  away,  and  made  as  if  he  would  have 
spoken  in  a  fierce  voice  to  the  judge.  He  was  stopped 
by  his  mouth  being  full  of  blood,  and  Allan  had  brought 
him  home. 

He  was  lying  on  the  sofa  with  his  eyes  closed,  when  I, 
went  in.  There  were  restoratives  on  the  table  ;  the  room 
was  made  as  airy  as  possible,  and  was  darkened,  and  was 
very  orderly  and  quiet.  Allan  stood  behind  him,  watch, 
ing  him  gravely.  His  face  appeared  to  me  to  be  quite 
destitute  of  colour,  and,  now  that  I  saw  him  without  his 
seeing  me,  I  fully  saw,  for  the  first  time,  how  worn  away 
he  was.  But  he  looked  handsomer  than  I  had  seen  him 
look  for  many  a  day. 

I  sat  down  by  his  side  in  silence.  Opening  his  eyes  by- 
and-by,  he  said,  in  a  weak  voice,  but  with  his  old  smile, 

"Dame  Burden,  kiss  me,  my  dear  1" 

It  was  a  great  comfort  and  surprise  to  me  to  find  him 
in  his  low  state  cheerful  and  looking  forward.  He  was 
happier,  he  said,  in  our  intended  marriage,  than  he  could 
find  words  to  tell  me.  My  husband  had  been  a  guardian 
angel  to  him  and  Ada,  and  he  blessed  us  both,  and  wished 
us  all  the  joy  that  life  could  yield  us.  I  almost  felt  as  if 
my  own  heart  would  have  broken,  when  I  saw  him  take 
my  husband's  hand,  and  hold  it  to  his  breast. 

We  spoke  of  the  future  as  much  as  possible,  and  he 
said  several  times  that  he  must  be  present  at  our  mar- 
riage if  he  could  stand  upon  his  feet.  Ada  would  con- 
trive to  take  him,  somehow,  he  said.  Yes,  surely, 
dearest  Richard  ! "  But  as  my  darling  answered  him 
thus  hopefully,  so  serene  and  beautiful,  with  the  help 
that  was  to  come  to  her  so  near, — I  knew — I  knew  ! 

It  was  not  good  for  him  to  talk  too  much  ;  and  when 
he  was  silent,  we  were  silent  too.  Sitting  beside  him,  I 
made  a  pretence  of  working  for  my  dear,  as  he  had  al- 
ways been  used  to  joke  about  my  being  busy.  Ada  leaned 
upon  his  pillow,  holding  his  head  upon  her  arm.  He 
dozed  often  ;  and  whenever  he  awoke  without  seeing 
him,  said,  first  of  all,     Where  is  Woodcourt  ?  " 

Evening  had  come  on,  when  I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  and 
saw  my  Guardian  standing  in  the  little  hall.  '**Who  is 
that.  Dame  Durden?"  Richard  askod  me.  The  door  was 
behind  him;  but  he  had  observed  in  my  face  that  some 
one  was  there. 

I  looked  to  Allen  for  advice,  and  as  he  nodded  "Yes," 
bent  over  Richard  and  told  him.  My  Guardian  saw  what 
passed,  came  softly  by  me  in  a  moment,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  Richard's.  **0  sir,"  said  Richard,  you  are  a 
good  man,  you  are  a  good  man  ! "  and  burst  into  tears 
tor  the  first  time. 


133 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


My  Guardian,  the  picture  of  a  good  man,  sat  down  in 
my  place,  keeping  his  hand  on  Richard's. 

My  dear  Rick,"  said  he,  ''the  clouds  have  cleared 
away,  and  it  is  bright  now.  We  can  see  now.  We  were 
all  bewildered,  Rick,  more  or  less.  What  matters  !  And 
kow  are  you,  my  dear  boy?'' 

I  am  very  weak,  sir,  but  I  hope  I  shall  be  stronger. 
I  have  to  begin  the  world.*' 

*'Ay,  truly  ;  well  said  i"  cried  my  Guardian. 
"I  will  not  begin  it  in  the  old  way  now,"  said  Rich-, 
ard  with  a  sad  smile.    "  I  have  learned  a  lesson  now,  sir. 
It  was  a  hard  one  ;  but  you  shall  be  assured,  indeed,  that 
I  have  learned  it." 

Well,  well,"  said  my  Guardian,  comforting  him  ; 
*  -  well,  well,  well,  dear  boy  ! " 

was  thinking,  sir,"  resumed  Richard,  "that  there 
is  nothing  on  earth  I  should  so  much  like  to  see  as  their 
house — Dame  Durden's  and  Woodcourt's  house.  If  I 
could  be  moved  there  w^hen  I  begin  to  recover  my 
strength,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  get  well  there,  sooner  than 
anywhere." 

Why,  so  have  I  been  thinking,  too.  Rick,"  said  my 
Guardian,  '*  and  our  little  woman  likewise  ;  she  and  I 
have  been  talking  of  it,  this  very  day.  I  dare  say  her 
husband  won't  object.    What  do  you  think?  " 

Richard  smiled  ;  and  lifted  up  his  arm  to  touch  him, 
as  he  stood  behind  the  head  of  his  couch. 

*'  I  say  nothing  of  Ada,"  said  Richard,  "but  I  think  of 
her,  and  have  thought  of  her  very  much.  Look  af  her  ! 
see  her  here,  sir,  bending  over  this  pillow  when  she  has 
so  much  need  to  rest  upon  it  herself,  my  dear  love,  my 
poor  girl  ! " 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  none  of  us  spoke. 
He  gradually  released  her  ;  and  she  looked  upon  us,  and 
looked  up  to  Heaven,  and  moved  her  lips. 

"When  I  get  down  to  Bleak  House,"  said  Richard, 
"  I  shall  have  much  to  tell  you,  sir,  and  you  will  have 
much  to  show  me.    You  will  go,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly,  dear  Rick." 

"  Thank  you  ;  like  you  like  you,"  said  Richard.  "But 
it's  ail  like  you.  They  have  been  telling  me  how  you 
planned  it,  and  how  you  remembered  all  Esther's  famil- 
iar tastes  and  ways.  It  will  be  like  coming  to  the  old 
Bleak  House  again." 

"And  you  will  come  there  too,  I  hope.  Rick.  I  am  a 
solitary  man  now,  you  know,  and  it  will  be  a  charity  to 
come  to  me.  A  charity  to  come  to  me,  my  love  !  "  he 
repeated  to  Ada,  as  he  gently  passed  his  hand  over  her 
golden  hair,  and  put  a  lock  of  it  to  his  lips.  ,  (I  think  he 
vowed  within  himself  to  cherish  her  it'  she  were  left 
alone.) 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


138 


"  It  was  all  a  troubled  dream  said  Richard,  clasping 
both  my  (jruardiaii's  hands  eagerly. 

Nothing  more.  Rick  ;  nothing  more." 

And  you,  being  a  good  man,  can  pass  it  as  such,  and 
forgive  and  pity  the  dreamer,  and  be  lenient  and  encour- 
aging when  he  wakes  ?  " 

Indeed  I  can.  What  am  I  but  another  dreamer. 
Rick?^- 

I  will  begin  the  world  ! "  said  Richard,  with  a  light, 
in  his  eyes. 

My  husband  drew  a  little  nearer  towards  Ada,  and  t 
saw  him  solemnly  lift  up  his  hand  to  warn  my  Guardian. 

When  shall  I  go  from  this  place,  to  that  pleasant 
country  where  the  old  times  are,  where  I  shall  have 
strength  to  tell  what  Ada  has  been  to  me,  where  I  shall 
be  able  to  recall  my  many  faults  and  blindnesses,  where  I 
shall  prepare  myself  to  be  a  guide  to  my  unborn  child?" 
said  Richard.    "  When  shall  1  go  ?  " 

Dear  Rick,  when  you  are  strong  enough,"  returned 
my  Guardian. 

'^Ada,  my  darling  !" 

He  sought  to  raise  himself  a  little.  Allan  raised  him 
so  that  she  could  hold  him  on  her  bosom  :  which  was 
what  he  wanted. 

'*I  have  done  you  many  wrongs,  my  own.  I  have 
fallen  like  a  poor  stray  shadow  on  your  way,  I  have 
married  you  to  poverty  and  trouble,  I  have  scattered 
your  means  to  the  winds.  You  vv^ijl  forgive  me  all  this, 
my  Ada,  before  I  begin  the  world  ?  " 

A  smile  irradiated  his  face,  as  she  bent  to  kiss  him. 
He  slowly  laid  his  face  down  upon  her  bosom,  drew  his 
arms  closer  round  her  neck,  and  with  one  parting  sob 
began  the  world.  Not  this  world,  O  not  this  !  The 
world  that  sets  this  right. 

When  all  was  still,  at  a  late  hour,  poor  crazed  Miss 
Flite  came  weeping  to  me,  and  told  me  she  had  given 
her  birds  their  liberty. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

Down  in  Lincolnshire. 

There  is  a  hush  upon  Chesney  Wold  in  these  altered 
days,  as  there  is  upon  a  portion  of  the  family  "history. 
The  story  goes,  that  Sir  Leicester  paid  some  who  could 
have  spoken  out,  to  hold  their  peace  ;  but  it  is  a  lame 
story,  feebly  whispering  and  creeping  about,  and  any 
brighter  spark  of  life  it  shows  soon  dies  away.  It  is 
known  for  certain  that  the  handsome  Lady  Dedlock  lies 
in  the  mausoleum  in  the  park,  where  tie  trees  arch 


184 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


darkly  overhead,  and  the  owl  is  heard  at  night  making 
the  woods  ring  ;  but  whence  she  was  brought  home  to 
be  laid  among  the  echoes  of  that  solitary  place,  or  how 
she  died,  is  all  mystery.  Some  of  her  old  friends,  prin- 
cipally to  be  found  among  the  peachy-cheeked  charmers 
with  the  skeleton  throats,  did  once  occasionally  say,  as 
they  toyed  in  a  ghastly  manner  with  large  fans — like 
charmers  reduced  to  flirting  with  grim  Death,  after  los- 
ing all  their  other  beaux — did  once  occasionally  say, 
when  the  World  assembled  together,  that  they  wondered 
the  ashes  of  the  Dedlocks,  entombed  in  the  mausoleum, 
never  rose  against  the  profanation  of  her  company. 
But  the  dead- and -gone  Dedlocks  take  it  very  calmly, 
and  have  never  been  known  to  object. 

Up  from  among  the  fern  in  the  hollow,  and  v/inding 
by  the  bridle-road  among  the  trees,  comes  sometimes  to 
this  lonely  spot  the  sound  of  horses*  hoofs.  Then  may 
be  seen  Sir  Leicester — invalided,  bent,  and  almost  blind, 
but  of  worthy  presence  yet — riding  with  a  stalwart  man 
beside  him,  constant  to  his  bridle-rein.  When  they 
come  to  a  certain  spot  before  the  mausoleum  door,  Sir 
Leicester's  accustomed  horse  stops  of  his  own  accord, 
and  Sir  Leicester,  pulling  off  his  hat,  is  still  for  a  few 
moments  before  they  ride  away. 

War  rages  yet  with  the  audacious  Boythorn,  though 
at  uncertain  intervals,  and  now  hotly,  and  now  coolly ; 
flickering  like  an  unsteady  fire.  The  truth  is  said  to  be, 
that  when  Sir  Leicester  came  down  to  Lincolnshire  for 
^ood,  Mr.  Boythorn  showed  a  manifest  desire  to  aban* 
don  his  right  of  way,  ana  do  whatever  Sir  Leicester 
would  :  which  Sir  Leicester,  conceiving  to  be  a  conde- 
scension to  his  illness  or  misfortune,  took  in  such  high 
dudgeon,  and  was  so  magnificently  aggrieved  by,  that 
Mr.  Boythorn  found  himself  under  the  necessity  of  com- 
mitting a  flagrant  trespass  to  restore  his  neighbor  to 
himself.  Similarly  Mr.  Boythorn  continues  to  post  tre- 
mendous placards  on  the  disputed  thoroughfare,  and 
(with  his  bird  upon  his  head)  to  hold  forth  vehemently 
against  Sir  Leicester  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  own  home  ; 
similarly,  also,  he  defies  him  as  of  old  in  the  little 
church,  by  testifying  a  bland  unconsciousness  of  his  ex- 
istence. But  it  is  whispered  that  when  he  is  most  fero- 
cious towards  his  old  foe,  he  is  really  most  considerate  ; 
and  that  Sir  Leicester,  in  the  dignity  of  being  implaca- 
ble, little  supposes  how  much  he  is  humoured.  As  little 
does  he  think  how  near  together  he  and  his  antagonist 
have  suffered,  in  the  fortunes  of  two  sisters,  and  his  an- 
tagonist, who  knows  it  now,  is  not  the  man  to  tell  him. 
So  the  quarrel  goes  on  to  the  satisfaction  of  both. 

In  one  of  the  lodges  of  the  park  ;  that  lodere  within  sight 
of  the  house  where,  once  upon  a  time,  when  the  waters . 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


135 


were  out  down  at  Lincolnshire,  my  Lady  used  to  see  the 
Keeper's  child  ;  the  stalwart  man,  the  trooper  formerly, 
is  housed.  Some  relics  of  his  old  callinp^hang-  upon  the 
walls,  and  these  it  is  the  chosen  recreation  of  a  little 
lame  man  about  the  stable-yard  to  keep  gleaming  bright. 
A  busy  little  man  he  always  is,  in  the  polishing  at  har- 
ness-house doors,  of  stirrup-irons,  bits,  curb-chains, 
harness-bosses,  anything  in  the  way  of  a  stable-yard 
that  will  take  a  polish  :  leading  a  life  of  friction.  A 
shaggy  little  damaged  man,  withal,  not  unlike  an  old 
dog  of  some  mongrel  breed,  who  has  been  considerably 
knocked  about.    He  answers  to  the  name  of  Phil. 

A  goodly  sight  it  is  to  see  the  grand  old  housekeeper 
(harder  of  hearing  now)  going  to  church  on  the  arm  of 
her  son,  and  to  observe — which  few  do,  for  the  house  is 
scant  of  company  in  these  times — the  relations  of  both 
towards  Sir  Leicester,  and  his  towards  them.  They  have 
visitors  in  the  high  summer  weather,  when  a  grey  cloak 
and  umbrella,  unknown  to  Chesney  Wold  at  other  peri- 
ods, are  seen  among  the  leaves  ;  when  two  young  ladies 
are  occasionally  found  gambolling,  in  sequestered  saw- 
pits,  and  such  nooks  of  the  park  ;  and  when  the  smoi:e 
of  two  pipes  wreathes  away  into  the  fragrant  evening 
air,  from  the  trooper's  door.  Then  is  a  fife  heard  troll- 
ing within  the  lodge,  on  the  inspiring  topic  of  the  British 
Grenadiers  ;  and,  as  the  evening  closes  in,  a  gruff  inflex- 
ible voice  is  heard  to  say,  while  two  men  pace  together 
up  and  down,  But  I  never  own  to  it  before  the  old  girl. 
Discipline  must  be  maintained." 

The  greater  part  of  the  house  is  shut  up,  and  it  is  a 
show-house  no  longer ;  yet  Sir  Leicester  holds  his 
shrunken  state  in  the  long  drawing-room  for  all  that, 
and  reposes  in  his  old  place  before  my  Lady's  picture. 
Closed  in  by  night  with  broad  screens,  and  illumined 
only  in  that  part,  the  light  of  the  drawing-room  seems 
gradually  contracting  and  dwindling  until  it  shall  be  no 
more.  A  little  more,  in  truth,  and  it  will  be  all  extin- 
guished for  Sir  Leicester ;  and  the  damp  door  in  the 
mausoleum  which  shuts  so  tight,  and  looks  so  obdurate, 
will  have  opened  and  received  him. 

Volumnia,  growing  with  the  flight  of  time  pinker  as  to 
the  red  in  her  face,  and  yellower  as  to  the  white,  reads 
to  Sir  Leicester  in  the  long  evenings,  and  is  driven  to 
various  artifices  to  conceal  her  yawns  :  of  which  the  chief 
and  most  efficacious  is  the  insertion  of  the  pearl  necklace 
between  her  rosy  lips.  Longwinded  treatises  on  the 
Buffy  and  Boodle  question,  showing  how  Buffy  is  immacu- 
late and  Boodle  villainous,  and  how  the  country  is  lost 
by  being  all  Boodle  and  no  Buffy,  or  saved  by  being  all 
Buffy  and  no  Boodle  (it  must  be  one  of  the  two,  and  can- 
not be  anything  else),  are  the  staple  of  her  reading.  Sir 


186 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Leicester  is  not  particular  what  it  is,  and  does  not  appea 
to  follow  it  very  closely  ;  further  than  that  he  alway 
comes  broad  awake  the  moment  Volumnia  ventures  to 
leave  off,  and  sonorously  repeating  her  last  word,  begs 
with  some  displeasure  to  know  if  she  finds  herself  fa- 
tigued ?  However,  Volumnia,  in  the  course  of  her  bird- 
like hopping  about  and  pecking  at  papers,  has  lighted 
on  a  memorandum  concerning  herself,  in  the  event  of 
"  any  thins:  happening''  her  kinsman,  which  is  hand- 
some compensation  for  an  extensive  course  of  reading, 
and  holds  even  the  dragon  Boredom  at  bay. 

The  cousins  generally  are  rather  shy  of  Chesney  Wold 
in  its  dulness,  but  take  to  it  a  little  in  the  shooting  sea- 
son, when  guns  are  heard  in  the  plantations,  and  a  few 
scattered  beaters  and  keepers  wait  at  the  old  places  of 
appointment,  for  low-spirited  twos  and  threes  of  cousins. 
The  debilitated  cousin,  more  debilitated  by  the  deariness 
of  the  place,  gets  into  a  fearful  state  of  depression,  groan- 
ing under  penitential  sofa-pillows  in  his  gunless  hours, 
and  protesting  that  such  fernal  old  jail's — nough  t'sew 
fier  up — frever. 

The  only  great  occasions  for  Volumnia,  in  this  changed 
aspect  of  the  place  in  Lincolnshire,  are  those  occasions, 
rare  and  widely  separated,  when  something  is  to  be  done 
for  the  county,  or  the  country,  in  the  way  of  gracing  a 
public  ball.  Then,  indeed,  does  the  tuckered  slyph  come 
out  in  fairy  form,  and  proceed  with  joy  under  cousinly 
escort  to  the  exhausted  old  assembly-room,  fourteen 
heavy  miles  off  ;  which,  during  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
four  days  and  nights  of  every  ordinary  year,  is  a  kind  of 
Antipodean  lumber-room,  full  of  old  chairs  and  tables, 
upside  down.  Then,  indeed,  does  she  captivate  all  hearts 
by  her  condescension,  by  her  girlish  vivacity,  and  by  her 
skipping  about  as  in  the  days  when  the  hideous  old  gen- 
eral with  the  mouth  too  full  of  teeth,  had  not  cut  one  of 
them  at  two  guineas  each.  Then  does  she  twirl  and 
twine,  a  pastoral  nymph  of  good  family,  through  the 
mazes  of  the  dance.  Then  do  the  swains  appear  with  tea, 
w^ith  lemonade,  with  sandwiches,  with  homage.  Then 
is  she  kind  and  cruel,  stately  and  unassuming,  various, 
beautifully  wilfuL  Then  is  there  a  singular  kind  of 
parallel  between  her  and  the  little  glass  chandeliers  of 
another  age,  embellishing  that  assembly-room  ;  which, 
with  their  meagre  stems,  their  spare  little  drops,  their 
disappointing  knobs  were  no  drops  are,  their  bare  little 
stalks  from  which  knobs  and  drops  have  both  departed, 
and  their  little  feeble  prismatic  twinkling,  all  seem  Vo. 
lumnias. 

For  the  rest,  Lincolnshire  life  to  Volumnia  is  a  vast 
blank  of  overgrown  house  looking  out  upon  trees,  sigh- 
ing, wringing  their  hands,  bowing  their  heads,  and  cast- 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


137 


mg  their  tears  upon  the  window-panes  in  monotonous 
depression.  A  labyrinth  of  grandeur,  hiss  the  property 
of  an  old  family  of  human  beings  and  their  ghostly  like- 
nesses, than  of  an  old  family  of  echoingsand  thunderings 
which  start  out  of  their  hundred  graves  at  every  sound, 
and  go  resounding  through  the  building.  A  waste  of 
unused  passages  and  staircases,  in  which  to  drop  a  comb 
upon  a  bedroom  floor  at  night  is  to  send  a  stealthy  foot- 
fall on  an  errand  through  the  house.  A  place  where  few 
people  care  to  go  about  alone  ;  where  a  maid  screams  if 
an  ash  drops  from  the  fire,  takes  to  crying  at  all  times 
and  seasons,  becomes  the  victim  of  a  low  disorder  of  the 
spirits,  and  gives  warning  and  departs. 

Thus  Chesney  Wold.  With  so  much  of  itself  aban- 
doned to  darkness  and  vacancy  ;  with  so  little  change 
under  the  summer  shining  or  the  wintry  lowering  ;  so 
sombre  and  motionless  always — no  flag  flying  now  by  day, 
no  rows  of  light  sparkling  by  night ;  with  no  family  to 
come  and  go,  no  visitors  to  be  the  souls  of  pale  cold 
shapes  of  rooms,  no  stir  of  life  about  it  ; — passion  and 
pride,  even  to  the  stranger's  eye,  have  died  away  from 
the  place  of  Lincolnshire,  and  yielded  it  to  dull  repose. 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

The  Close  of  Esther's  Narrative. 

Full  seven  happy  years  I  have  been  the  mistress  of 
Bleak  House.  The  few  words  that  I  have  to  add  to  what 
I  have  written,  are  soon  penned  ;  then  I,  and  the  un- 
known friend  to  whom  I  write,  will  part  for  ever.  Not 
without  much  dear  remembrance  on  my  side.  Not  Avith- 
out  some,  I  hope,  on  his  or  hers. 

They  gave  my  darling  into  my  arms,  and  through 
many  weeks  I  never  left  her.  The  little  child  who  was 
to  have  done  so  much,  was  born  before  the  turf  was 
planted  on  his  father's  grave.  It  was  a  boy  ;  and  I,  my 
husband,  and  my  Guardian,  gave  him  his  father  name. 

The  help  that  my  dear  counted  on,  did  come  to  her  ; 
though  it  came  in  the  Eternal  Wisdom,  for  another  pur- 
pose. Though  to  bless  and  restore  his  mother,  not  his 
father,  was  the  errand  of  this  baby,  its  power  was  mighty 
to  do  it.  When  I  saw  the  strength  of  the  weak  little 
hand,  and  how  its  touch  could  heal  my  darling's  heart, 
and  raise  up  hope  within  her,  I  felt  a  new  sense  of  the 
goodness  and  the  tenderness  of  God. 

They  throve  ;  and  by  degrees  I  saw  my  dear  girl  pass 
Into  my  country  garden,  and  walk  there  with  her  infant 


138 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  lier  arms,  i  was  married  then.  I  was  the  happiest 
of  the  happy. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  my  Guardian  joined  us,  and 
asked  Ada  when  she  would  come  home. 

**  Both  houses  are  your  home,  my  dear,*'  said  he,  "  but 
the  older  Bleak  House  claims  priority.  When  you  and 
my  boy  are  strong  enough  to  do  it,  come  and  take  posses- 
sion of  your  home, 

Ada  called  him  "her  dearest  cousin,  John."  But  he 
said,  No,  it  must  be  Guardian  now.  He  was  her  Guard- 
ian henceforth,  and  the  boy's ;  and  he  had  an  old  asso- 
ciation with  tl^e  name.  So  she  called  him  Guardian,  and 
has  called  him  Guardian  ever  since.  The  children  know 
him  by  no  other  name — I  say  the  children  ;  I  have  two 
little  daughters. 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  Charley  (round-eyed  still, 
and  not  at  ail  grammatical)  is  married  to  a  miller  in  our 
neighbourhood  ;  yet  so  it  is  ;  and  even  now,  looking  up 
from  my  desk  as  I  write,  early  in  the  morning  at  my 
summer  window,  I  see  the  very  mill  beginning  to  go  round. 
I  hope  the  miller  will  not  spoil  Charley  ;  but  he  is  very 
fond  of  her,  and  Charley  is  rather  vain  of  such  a  match 
— for  he  is  well  to  do,  and  was  in  great  request.  So  far 
as  my  small  maid  is  concerned,  I  might  suppose  Time  to 
have  stood  for  seven  years  as  still  as  the  mill  did  half 
an  hovir  ago  ;  since  little  Emma,  Charley's  sister,  is  ex- 
actly what  Charley  used  to  be.  As  to  Tom,  Charley's 
brother,  I  am  really  afraid  to  say  what  he  did  at  school 
in  ciphering,  but  I  think  it  was  Decimals.  He  is  appren- 
ticed to  the  miller,  whatever  it  was  ;  and  is  a  good  bashful 
fellow,  always  falling  in  love  with  somebody,  and  being 
ashamed  of  it. 

Caddy  Jellyby  passed  her  very  last  holidays  with  us, 
and  was  a  dearer  creature  than  ever ;  perpetually  danc- 
ing in  and  out  of  the  house  with  the  children,  as  if  she 
had  never  given  a  dancing-lesson  in  her  life.  Caddy 
keeps  her  own  little  carriage  now,  instead  of  hiring  one, 
and  lives  full  two  miles  further  westward  than  Newman 
Street.  She  works  very  hard,  her  husband  (an  excellent 
one)  being  lame,  and  able  to  do  very  little.  Still,  she  is 
more  than  contented,  and  does  all  she  has  to  do  with  all 
her  heart.  Mr.  Jellyby  spends  his  evenings  at  her  new 
house  with  his  head  against  the  wall,  as  he  used  to 
do  in  her  old  one.  I  have  heard  that  Mrs.  Jellyby  was 
understood  to  suffer  great  mortification,  from  her  daugh- 
ter's ignoble  marriage  and  pursuits  ;  but  I  hope  she  got 
over  it  in  time.  She  has  been  disappointed  in  Borrioboo- 
la  Gha,  which  turned  out  a  failure  in  consequence  of  the 
King  of  Borrioboola  wanting  to  sell  everybody — who 
survived  the  climate — for  Rum  ;  but  she  has  taken  up 
with  the  rights  of  women  to  sit  in  Parliament,  and  Caddy 


BLEAK  -fiOUSB. 


189 


tells  me  it  is  a  mission  involving  more  correspondence 
than  the  old  one.  I  had  almost  forgotten  Caddy's  poor 
little  girl.  She  is  not  such  a  mite  now  ;  but  she  is  deaf 
and  dumb.  I  believe  there  never  was  a  better  mother 
than  Caddy,  who  learns,  in  her  scanty  intervals  of  leisure, 
innumerable  deaf  and  dumb  arts,  to  soften  the  affliction 
of  her  child. 

As  if  I  were  never  to  have  done  with  Caddy,  I  am  re- 
minded here  of  Peepy  and  old  Mr.  Turveydrop.  Peepy 
is  in  the  Custom-house,  and  doing  extremely  well.  Old 
Mr.  Turveydrop,  very  apolectic,  still  exhibits  his  De- 
portment about  town  ;  still  enjoys  himself  in  the  old 
manner ;  is  still  believed  in,  in  the  old  way.  He  is  con- 
stant in  his  patronage  of  Peepy,  and  is  understood  to  have 
bequeathed  him  a  favourite  French  clock  in  his  dressing- 
room — which  is  not  his  property. 

With  the  first  money  we  saved  at  home,  we  added  to 
our  pretty  house  by  throwing  out  a  little  Growlery  ex- 
pressly for  ra  '  Guardian  ;  wrhich  we  inaugurated  with 
/crreat  splendon.  the  next  time  he  came  down  to  see  us. 
I  try  to  write  rli  this  lightly,  because  my  heart  is  fuH 
in  drawing  to  an  end  ;  but  when  I  write  of  him,  my 
tears  will  have  their  way, 

I  never  look  at  him,  but  I  hear  our  poor  dear  Richard 
calling  him  a  good  man.  To  Ada  and  her  pretty  boy,  he 
is  the  fondest  father  ;  to  me,  he  is  what  he  has  ever 
been,  and  what  name  can  I  give  to  that  ?  He  is  my  hus- 
band's best  and  dearest  friend,  he  is  our  children's  darl- 
ing, he  is  the  object  of  our  deepest  love  and  veneration. 
Yet  while  I  feel  towards  him  as  if  he  were  a  superior 
being,  I  am  so  familiar  with  him,  and  so  easy  with  him, 
that  I  almost  wonder  at  myself.  I  have  never  lost  my 
old  names,  nor  has  he  lost  his  ;  nor  do  I  ever,  when  he 
is  with  us,  sit  in  any  other  place  than  in  my  old  chair  at 
his  side.  Dame  Trot,  Dame  Durden,  Little  Woman  ! — - 
all  just  the  same  as  ever  ;  and  I  answer,  Yes,  dear  Guard- 
ian I  just  the  same. 

I  have  never  known  the  wind  to  be  in  the  East  for  a 
single  moment,  since  the  day  wdien  he  took  me  to  the 
porch  to  read  the  name.  I  remarked  to  him,  once,  that 
the  wind  seemed  r.ever  in  the  East  now  :  and  he  said, 
No,  truly  :  it  had  finally  departed  from  that  quarter  on 
that  very  day. 

I  think  my  darling  girl  is  more  beautiful  than  ever. 
The  sorrow  that  has  been  in  her  face — for  it  is  not  there 
now — seems  to  have  purified  even  its  innocent  expres- 
sion, «nd  to  have  given  it  a  diviner  quality.  Sometimes, 
when  I  raise  my  eyes  and  see  her,  in  the  black  dress  that 
she  still  wears,  teaching  my  Richard,  I  feel — it  is  diffi- 
cult to  express — as  if  it  were  so  good  to  know  that  she 
remembers  her  dear  Esther  in  her  prayers. 


140 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I  call  him  my  Riclhard  I  But  lie  says  that  he  has  two 
mamas,  and  I  am  one. 

We  are  not  rich  in  the  bank,  but  we  have  always 
prospered,  and  we  have  quite  enough.  I  never  walk  out 
with  my  husband,  but  I  hear  the  people  bless  him.  I 
never  go  into  a  house  of  any  degree,  but  I  hear  his 
praises,  or  see  them  in  grateful  eyes.  I  never  lie  down 
at  night,  but  I  know  that  in  the  course  of  that  day  he 
has  alleviated  pain,  and  soothed  some  fellow-creature  in 
the  time  of  need.  I  know  that  from  the  beds  of  those 
who  were  past  recovery,  thanks  have  often,  often  gone 
up  in  the  last  hour  for  his  patient  ministration.  Is  not 
this  to  be  rich  ? 

The  people  even  praise  Me  as  the  doctor's  wife.  The 
people  even  like  Me  as  I  go  about,  and  make  so  much  of 
me  that  I  am  quite  abashed.  I  owe  it  all  to  him,  my 
love,  my  pride  I  They  like  me  for  his  sake,  as  I  do  every^ 
thing  I  do  in  life  for  his  sake. 

A  night  or  two  ago,  after  bustling  abor  '  preparing  for 
my  darling  and  my  Guardian  and  little  ^  ichard,  who  are 
coming  to-morrow,  I  was  sitting  out  in  ^be  porch  of  all 
places,  that  dearly  memorable  porch,  when  Allan  came 
home.  So  he  said,  ''My  precious  little  woman,  what  are 
you  doing  here  ?"  And  I  said,  "  The  moon  is  shining  so 
brightly,  Allan,  and  the  night  is  so  delicious,  that  I  have 
been  sitting  here,  thinking." 

"What  have  you  been  thinking  about,  my  deai?" 
said  Allan  then. 

''How  curious  you  are!"  said  I.  am  almost 

ashamed  to  tell  you,  but  I  will.  I  have  been  thinking 
about  my  old  looks — such  as  they  were.'' 

"  And  what  have  you  been  thinki^jg  about  them,  my 
busy  bee  ?  "  said  Allan. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  that  I  thought  it  was  impossi- 
ble that  you  could  have  loved, me  any  better,  even  if  I 
had  retained  them." 

"  — Such  as  they  were  ?"  said  Allan  laughing. 

"  Such  as  they  were,  of  course." 

"  My  dear  Dame  Durden,"  said  Allan,  drawing  my 
arm  through  his,  "  do  you  ever  look  in  the  glass  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  do  ;  you  see  me  do  it." 

''  And  don't  you  know  that  you  are  prettier  than  you 
ever  were  ?  " 

I  did  not  know  that  ;  I  am  not  certain  that  I  know  it 
now.  But  I  know  that  my  dearest  little  pets  are  very 
pretty,  and  that  my  darling  is  very  beautiful,  and  that 
my  husband  is  very  handsome,  and  that  my  Guardian 
has  the  brightest  and  most  benevolent  face  that  ever  was 
seen  ;  and  that  they  can  very  well  do  without  much 
beauty  in  me — even  supposing — . 

END  OF  "BLEAK  HOUSE." 


Pictures 
FROM  Italy. 


THE  READER'S  PASSPORT. 

tP  the  readers  of  this  volume  will  be  so  kind  as  to 
take  their  credentials  for  the  different  places  which  are 
the  subject  of  its  author's  reminiscences,  from  the  Au- 
thor himself,  perhaps  they  may  visit  them,  in  fancy, 
the  more  agreeably,  and  with  a  better  understanding  of 
what  they  are  to  expect. 

Many  books  have  been  written  upon  Italy,  affording 
many  means  of  studying  the  history  of  that  interesting 
country,  and  the  innumerable  associations  entwined  about 
it.  I  make  but  little  reference  to  that  stock  of  infor- 
mation ;  not  at  all  regarding  it  as  a  necessary  conse- 
quence of  my  having  had  recourse  to  the  storehouse  for 
my  own  benefit,  that  I  should  reproduce  its  easily  ac- 
cessible contents  before  the  eyes  of  my  readers. 

Neither  will  there  be  found,  in  these  pages,  any  grave 
examination  into  the  government  or  misgovernment  of 
any  portion  of  the  country.  No  visitor  of  that  beautiful 
land  can  fail  to  have  a  strong  conviction  on  the  subject ; 
but  as  I  chose  when  residing  there,  a  Foreigner,  to  ab- 
stain from  the  discussion  of  any  such  questions  with  any 
order  of  Italians,  so  I  would  rather  not  enter  on  the  in- 
quiry now.  During  my  twelve  months'  occupation  of  a 
house  at  Genoa,  I  never  found  that  authorities  constitu- 
tionally jealous,  were  distrustful  of  me  ;  and  I  should  be 
sorry  to  give  them  occasion  to  regret  their  free  courtesy, 
either  to  myself  or  any  of  my  countrymen. 

There  is,  probably,  not  a  famous  Picture  or  Statue  in 
all  Italy,  but  could  be  easily  buried  under  a  mountain  of 
printed  paper  devoted  to  dissertations  on  it.  I  do  not, 
therefore,  though  an  earnest  admirer  of  Painting  and 
Sculpture,  expatiate  at  any  length  on  famous  Pictures 
and  Statues. 

This  Book  is  a  series  of  faint  reflections — m^-re  shad- 
ows in  the  water — of  places  to  which  the  imaginations 


143  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


of  most  people  are  attracted  in  a  greater  or  less  degree, 
on  which,  mine  had  dwelt  for  years,  and  which  have 
some  interest  for  all.  The  greater  part  of  the  descrip- 
tions were  written  on  the  spot,  and  sent  home,  from 
time  to  time,  in  private  letters.  I  do  not  mention  the 
circumstance  as  an  excuse  for  any  defects  they  may  pre- 
sent, for  it  would  be  none  ;  but  as  a  guarantee  to  the 
Reader  that  they  were  at  least  penned  in  the  fulness  of 
the  subject,  and  with  the  liveliest  impressions  of  novelty 
and  freshness. 

If  they  have  ever  a  fanciful  and  idle  air,  perhaps  the 
reader  will  suppose  them  written  in  the  shade  of  a  Sunny 
Day,  in  the  midst  of  the  object  of  which  they  treat,  and 
will  like  them  none  the  worse  for  having  such  influences 
of  the  country  upon  them. 

I  hope  I  am  not  likely  to  be  misunderstood  by  Profes- 
sors of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  on  account  of  anything 
contained  in  these.pages.  I  have  done  my  best,  in  one 
of  my  former  productions,  to  do  justice  to  them  ;  and  I 
trust,  in  this,  they  will  do  justice  to  me.  When  I  men- 
tion any  exhibition  that  impressed  me  as  absurd  or  dis- 
agreeable, I  do  not  seek  to  connr ct  it,  or  recognize  it  as 
necessarily  connected  with,  any  essentials  of  their  creed. 
When  I  treat  of  the  ceremonies  of  the  Holy  Week,  I 
merely  treat  of  their  effect,  and  do  not  challenge  the 
good  and  learned  Dr.  Wiseman's  interpretation  of  their 
meaning.  When  I  hint  a  dislike  of  nunneries  for  young 
girls  who  abjure  the  world  before  they  have  ever  proved 
or  known  it ;  or  doubt  the  ex-officio  sanctity  of  all  Priests 
and  Friars  ;  I  do  no  more  than  many  conscientious  Cath^ 
©lies  both  abroad  and  at  home. 

I  have  likened  these  Pictures  to  shadows  in  the  water, 
^ind  would  fain  hope  that  I  have,  nowhere,  stirred  the 
water  so  roughly,  as  to  mar  the  shadows.  I  could  ne^^^^ 
desire  to  be  on  better  terms  with  all  my  friends  thoo 
now,  when  distant  mountains  rise,  once  more,  in  my 
path.  For  I  need  not  hesitate  to  avow,  that,  bent  on 
correcting  a  brief  mistake  I  made,  not  long  ago,  in  dis- 
turbing the  old  relations  between  myself  and  my  readers, 
and  departing  for  a  moment  from  my  old  pursuits,  I  am 
about  to  resume  them,  joyfully,  in  Switzerland  :  where, 
during  another  year  of  absence,  I  can  at  once  work  out 
the  themes  1  have  now  in  my  mind,  without  interrup- 
tion :  and  while  I  keep  my  English  audience  within 
speaking  distance,  extend  my  knowledge  of  a  noble 
country,  inexpressively  attractive  to  me.* 

This  book  is  made  as  accessible  as  possible,  because  it 
would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  if  I  could  hope,  through 
its  means,  to  compare  impressions  with  some  among  the 


♦Tiiis  waa  written  lii~1846. 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALT. 


148 


multitudes  who  will  hereafter  visit  the  scenes  iescrihed 
with  interest  and  delight. 

And  I  have  only  now,  in  passport  wise,  io  sketch  my 
reader's  portrait,  which  I  hope  may  be  thus  iuppositi 
tiously  traced  for  either  sex  : 


Complexion 
Eyes 
Nose 
Mouth 
Visage 
General  Expression 


.  Fair. 

,  Very  cheerful. 

.  Not  supercilious- 

,  Smiling. 

.  Beaming. 

.  Extremely  agreecil3te 


GOING  THROUGH  FRANCE. 

On  a  fine  Sunday  morning  in  the  Midsummer  time  and 
weather  of  eighteen  hundred  and  forty- four,  it  was,  my 
good  friend,  when — don't  be  alarmed  ;  not  when  two 
travellers  might  have  been  observed  slowly  making 
their  way  over  that  picturesque  *ind  broken  ground  by 
which  the  first  chapter  of  a  Middle  Aged  no^el  is  usually 
attained — but  when  an  English  travelling^  carriage  of 
considerable  proportions^  Tresh  from  the  shady  halls  of 
the  Pantechnicon  near  Belgrave-square,  London,  was 
observed  (by  a  very  small  French  soldier  ;  for  I  saw  him 
look  at  it)  to  issu  from  the  gate  of  the  Hotel  Meurice  in 
the  Rue  Rivoli  at  Paris. 

I  am  no  more  bound  to  3xplain  why  the  English  fam- 
ily travelling  by  this  carriage,  inside  md  out,  should  be 
starting  for  Italy  on  a  Sunday  morning,  of  all  good  days 
in  the  week,  than  I  am  to  assign  a  reason  for  all  the 
little  men  in  France  being  soldiers,  and  all  the  big  men 
postilions  :  which  is  the  invariable  rule.  But,  they  had 
some  sort  of  reason  for  what  they  did,  I  have  no  doubt ; 
and  their  reason  for  being  there  at  all,  <vas,  as  you  know, 
that  they  were  going  to  live  in  fair  Genoa  for  a  year  ; 
and  that  the  head  of  the  family  purposed,  in  that  space 
of  time,  to  stroll  about,  wherever  his  restless  humour 
carried  him. 

And  it  would  have  been  small  comfort  to  me  to  have 
explained  to  the  population  of  Paris  generally,  that  ii 
was  that  Head  and  Chief ;  and  not  the  radiant  embodi- 
ment of  good-humour  who  sat  beside  me  in  the  person 
of  a  French  Courier — best  of  servants  and  most  beaming 
of  men  !  Truth  to  say,  he  looked  a  great  deal  more 
patriarchal  than  I,  who,  in  the  shadow  of  his  portly 
presence,  dwindled  down  to  no  account  at  all. 

There  was,  of  course,  very  little  in  the  aspect  of  Paris 
—as  we  rattled  near  the  dismal  Morgue  and  over  th© 


144 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Pont  Neuf— to  reproach  us  for  our  Sunday  tia^ciJing, 
The  wine-shops  (every  second  house)  were  drivza^  a 
roaring  trade  ;  awnings  were  spreading,  and  chairs  and 
tables  arranging,  outside  the  cafes,  preparatory  to  the 
eating  of  ices,  and  drinking  of  cool  liquids,  later  in  the 
day  ;  shoe-blacks  were  busy  on  the  bridges  ;  shops  wer* 
open  ;  carts  and  waggons  clattered  to  and  fro  ;  the  nar 
row,  up-hill,  funnel -like  streets  across  the  River,  were 
so  many  dense  perspectives  of  crowd  and  bustle,  paiti 
coloured  night-caps,  tobacco-pipes,  blouses,  large  boots, 
and  shaggy  heads  of  hair  ;  nothing  at  that  hour  denoted 
a  day  of  rest,  unless  it  were  the  appearance,  here  and 
there,  of  a  family  pleasure -party,  crammed  into  a  bulky 
old  lumbering  cab  ;  or  of  some  contemplative  holiday 
maker  in  the  freest  and  easiest  dishabille,  leaning  out 
of  a  low  garret  window,  watching  the  drying  of  his  new- 
ly polished  shoes  on  the  little  parapet  outside  (if  a 
gentleman),  or  the  airing  of  her  stockings  in  the  sun  (if  a 
lady),  with  calm  anticipation. 

Once  clear  of  the  never-to-be-forgotten-or-forgiven 
pavement  which  surrounds  Paris,  the  first  three  days  of 
travelling  towards  Marseilles  are  quiet  and  monotonous 
enough.  To  Sens.  To  Aval  Ion.  To  Chalons.  A 
sketch  of  one  day's  proceedings  is  a  sketch  of  all  three  ; 
and  here  it  is. 

We  have  four  horses,  and  one  postilion,  who  has  a 
very  long  whip,  and  drives  his  team,  something  like  the 
Courier  of  Saint  Petersburg  in  the  circle  at  Astley's  or 
Franconi's  :  only  he  sits  his  own  horse  instead  of  stand- 
ing on  him.  The  immense  jack-boots  worn  by  these  pos- 
tilions, are  sometimes  a  century  or  two  old  ;  and  are  so 
ludicrously  disproportionate  to  the  wearer^s  foot,  that 
the  spur,  which  is  put  where  his  own  heel  comes,  is 
generally  halfway  up  the  leg  of  the  boots.  The  man 
often  comes  out  of  the  stable-yard,  vdth  his  whip  in 
his  hand  and  his  shoes  on,  and  brings  out,  in  both 
hands,  one  boot  at  a  time,  which  he  plants  on  the  ground 
by  the  side  of  his  horse,  with  great  gravity,  until  every- 
thing is  ready.  When  it  is — and  oh  Heaven  1  the  noise 
they  make  about  it  ! — ^he  gets  into  the  boots,  shoes  and 
all,  or  is  hoisted  mto  them  by  a  couple  of  friends  ;  adjusts 
the  rope-harness,  embossed  by  the  labours  of  innumer- 
able pigeons  in  the  stables  ;  makes  all  the  horses  kick 
and  plunge  ;  cracks  his  whip  like  a  madman ;  shouts 

En  route — Hi  and  away  we  go.  He  is  sure  to  have 
a  contest  with  his  horse  before  we  have  gone  very  far ; 
and  then  he  calls  him  a  Thief,  and  a  Brigand,  and  a 
Pig,  and  what  not  ;  and  beats  him  about  the  head  as  if 
he  were  made  of  wood. 

There  is  little  more  than  one  variety  in  the  appearance 
of  the  country,  for  the  first  two  days.    From  a  dreary 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


145 


plain,  to  an  interminable  avenue,  and  from  an  intermin- 
able avenue,  to  a  dreary  plain  again.  Plenty  of  vines 
there  are,  in  the  open  fields,  but  of  a  short  low  kind, 
and  not  trliined  in  festoons,  but  about  straight  sticks. 
Beggars  innumerable  there  are,  everywhere  ;  but  an  ex- 
traordinarily scanty  population,  and  fewer  children  than 
I  ever  encountered.  I  don't  believe  we  saw  a  hundred 
children  between  Paris  and  Chalons.  Queer  old  towns, 
draw-bridged  and  walled  :  v/ith  odd  little  towers  at  the 
angles,  like  grotesque  faces,  as  if  the  wall  had  put  a 
mask  on,  and  were  staring,  aown  into  the  moat ;  other 
strange  little  towers,  in  gardens  and  fields,  and  down 
lanes,  and  in  farm-yards :  all  alone,  and  always  round, 
with  a  peaked  roof,  and  never  used  for  any  purpose  at 
all ;  ruinous  buildings  of  all  sorts  :  sometimes  an  h6tel 
de  ville,  sometimes  a  guard-house,  sometimes  a  dwell- 
ing-house, sometimes  a  chateau  with  a  rank  garden, 
prolific  in  dandelion,  and  watcued  over  by  extinguish- 
er-topped turrets,  and  blink-eyed  little  casements  ;  are 
the  standard  objects,  repeated  over  and  over  again. 
Sometimes  we  pass  a  village  inn,  with  a  crumbling  wall 
belonging  to  it,  and  a  perfect  town  of  out-houses  :  and 
painted  over  the  gateway,  Stabling  for  Sixty  Horses  ; " 
as  indeed  there  might  be  stabling  for  sixty  score,  were 
there  any  horses  to  be  stabled  there,  or  anybody  resting 
there,  or  any  thing  stirring  about  the  place  but  a  dan- 
gling bush,  indicative  of  the  wine  inside  :  which  flutters 
idly  in  the  wind,  in  lazy  keeping  with  everything  else, 
and  certainly  is  never  in  a  green  old  age,  though  always 
so  old  as  to  be  dropping  to  pieces.  And  all  day  long, 
strange  little  narrow  waggons,  in  strings  of  six  or  eight, 
bringing  cheese  from  Switzerland,  and  frequently  in 
charge,  the  whole  line,  of  one  man  or  even  boy — and  he 
very  often  asleep  in  the  foremost  cart — come  jingling 
past :  the  horses  drowsily  ringing  the  bells  upon  their 
harness,  and  looking  as  if  they  thought  (no  doubt  they 
do)  their  great  blue  woolly  furniture,  of  immense  weight 
and  thickness  with  a  pair  of  grotesque  horns  growing 
out  of  the  collar,  very  much  too  warm  for  the  Midsummer 
weather. 

Then,  there  is  the  Diligence,  twice  or  thrice  a-day; 
with  the  dusty  outsides  in  blue  frocks,  like  butchers; 
and  the  insides  in  white  nightcaps  ;  and  its  cabriolet 
head  on  the  roof,  nodding  and  shaking,  like  an  idiot's 
head  ;  and  its  Young-France  passengers  staring  out  of 
window,  with  beards  down  to  their  waists,  and  blue 
spectacles  awfully  shading  their  warlike  eyes,  and  very 
big  sticks  clenched  in  their  National  grasp.  Also  the 
Malle  Poste,  with  only  a  couple  of  passengers,  tearing 
along  at  a  real  good  dare-devil  pace,  and  out  of  sight 
In  no  time.    Steady  old  Cures  come  jolting  past,  now 


146 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  then,  in  such  ramshackle,  rusty,  musty,  clattering 
coaches  as  no  Englishman  would  believe  in ;  and  bony 
women  daudle  about  in  solitary  places,  holding  cows  by 
ropes  while  they  feed,  or  digging  and  hoeing,  or  doing 
fievld-work  of  a  more  laborious  kind,  or  representing 
real  shepherdesses  with  their  flocks — to  obtain  an  ade- 
quate idea  of  which  pursuit  and  its  followers,  in  any 
country,  it  is  only  necessary  to  take  any  pastoral  poem, 
or  picture,  and  imagine  to  yourself  whatever  is  most  ex- 
quisitely and  widely  unlike  the  descriptions  therein  con- 
tained. 

You  have  been  travelling  along,  stupidly  enough,  as 
you  generally  do  in  the  last  stage  of  the  day ;  and  the 
ninety-six  bells  upon  the  horses — twenty-four  apiece — 
have  been  ringing  sleepily  in  your  ears  for  half  an  hour 
or  so  ;  and  it  has  become  a  very  jog-trot,  monotonous, 
tiresome  sort  of  business  ;  and  you  have  been  thinking 
deeply  about  the  dinner  you  will  have  at  the  next  stage ; 
when,  down  at  the  end  of  the  long  avenue  of  trees 
through  which  you  are  travelling,  the  first  indication  of 
a  town  appears,  in  the  shape  of  some  straggling  cot- 
tages :  and  the  carriage  begins  to  rattle  and  roll  over  a 
horribly  uneven  pavement.  As  if  the  equipage  were  a 
great  firework,  and  the  mere  sight  of  a  smoking  cottage 
chimney  had  lighted  it,  instantly  it  begins  to  crack  and 
splutter,  as  if  the  very  devil  were  in  it.  Crack,  crack, 
crack,  crack.  Crack-crack-crack !  Crick-crack.  Crack- 
crack.  Helo  !  Hola  !  Vite  I  Voleur  !  Brigand  !  Hi  hi  hi ! 
En  r-r-r-r-r-route  !  Whip,  wheels,  driver,  stones,  beg- 
gars, children  ;  crack,  crack,  crack  ;  helo  !  hola  !  charite 
pour  Tamour  de  Dieu  !  crick-crack-crick-crack  ;  crick, 
crick,  crick ;  bump,  jolt,  crack,  bump,  crick-crack ; 
round  the  comer,  up  the  narrow  street,  down  the  paved 
hill  on  the  other  side ;  in  the  gutter  ;  bump,  bump  ; 
jolt,  jog,  crick,  crick,  crick  ;  crack,  crack,  crack ;  into 
the  shop-windows  on  the  left  hand  side  of  the  street, 
preliminary  to  a  sweeping  turn  into  the  wooden  archway 
on  the  right ;  rumble,  rumble,  rumble  ;  clatter ;  clatter, 
clatter  ;  crick,  crick,  crick ;  and  here  we  are  in  the  yard 
of  the  Hotel  de  TEcu  d'Or  ;  used  up,  gone  out,  smoking, 
spent,  exhausted  ;  but  sometimes  making  a  false  start 
unexpectedly,  with  nothing  coming  of  it — like  a  firework 
to  the  last  I 

The  landlady  of  the  Hotel  de  TEcu  d'Or  is  here  ;  and 
the  landlord  of  the  Hotel  de  TEcu  d'Or  is  here  ;  and  the 
femme-de-chamber  of  the  H6tel  de  TEcu  d'Or  is  here  ; 
and  a  gentleman  in  a  glazed  cap,  with  a  red  beard  like  a 
bosom  friend,  who  is  staying  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Ecu  d'Or, 
is  here  ;  and  Monsieur  le  Cure  is  walking  up  and  down 
in  a  corner  of  the  yard  by  himself,  with  a  shovel  hat 
upon  his  head,  and  a  black  gown  on  his  back,  and  a 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


147 


book  in  one  hand,  and  an  umbrella  in  the  other  ;  and 
everybody,  except  Monsieur  le  Cur^,  is  open-mouthed 
and  open-eyed,  for  the  opening  of  the  carriage-door. 
The  landlord  of  the  H6tel  de  I'Ecu  d'Or,  dotes  to  that 
extent  upon  the  Courier,  that  he  can  hardly  wait  for  hia 
coming  down  from  the  box,  but  embraces  his  very  legs 
aud  boot-heels  as  he  descends.  **My  Courier  !  My  brave 
Courier  I  My  friend  I  My  brother  I "  The  landlady  loves 
hiui,  the  femme-de-chamber  blesses  him,  the  garcjon 
worships  him.  The  Courier  asks  if  his  letter  has  been 
received  ?  It  has,  it  has.  Are  the  rooms  prepared  ?  They 
ire,  they  are.  The  best  rooms  for  my  Courier  ;  the 
rooms  of  state  for  my  gallant  Courier ;  the  whole  house 
is  at  the  service  of  my  best  of  friends  I  He  keeps  his 
hand  upon  the  carriage-door,  and  asks  some  other  ques- 
tion to  enhance  the  expectation.  He  carries  a  green 
leathern  purse  outside  his  coat,  suspended  by  a  belt. 
The  idlers  look  at  it ;  one  touches  it.  It  is  full  of  five- 
franc  pieces.  Murmurs  of  admiration  ars3  heard  among 
the  boys.  The  landlord  falls  upon  the  Courier's  neck, 
and  he  folds  him  to  his  breast.  He  is  so  much  fatter 
than  he  was,  he  says  I    He  looks  so  rosy  and  well  ! 

The  door  is  opened.  Breathless  expectation.  The  lady 
of  the  family  gets  out.  Ah  sweet  lady  I  Beautiful  lady  I 
The  sister  of  the  lady  of  the  family  gets  out.  Great 
Heaven,  Ma'amselle  is  charming  I  First  iittle  boy  gets 
out.  Ah,  what  a  beautiful  little  boy  I  First  little  girl 
gets  out.  Oh,  but  this  is  an  enchanting  child  !  Second 
little  girl  gets  out.  The  landlady,  yielding  to  the  finest 
impulse  of  our  common  nature,  catches  her  up  in  her 
arms  !  Second  little  boy  gets  out.  Oh,  the  sweet  boy  ! 
Oh,  the  tender  Lttla  family  I  The  baby  is  handed  out. 
Angelic  baby  I  The  baby  has  topped  everything.  All 
the  rapture  is  expended  on  the  baby  I  Then  the  two 
nurses  tumble  out ;  and  the  enthusiasm  swelling  into 
madness,  the  whole  family  are  swept  up  stairs  as  on  a 
cloud  ;  while  the  idlers  press  about  the  carriage,  and 
look  into  it,  and  walk  round  it,  and  touch  it.  For  it  is 
something*  to  touch  a  carriage  that  has  held  so  many 
people.    It  is  a  legacy  to  leave  one's  children. 

The  rooms  are  on  the  first  floor,  except  the  nursery  for 
the  night,  which  is  a  great  rambling  chamber,  with 'four 
or  five  beds  in  it :  through  a  dark  passage,  up  two  steps, 
down  four,  past  a  pump,  across  the  balcony,  and  next 
door  to  the  stable.  The  other  sleeping  apartments  are 
large  and  lofty  ;  each  with  two  small  bedsteads,  taste- 
fully hung,  like  the  windows,  with  red  and  white  drap 
ery.  The  sitting-room  is  famous.  Dinner  is  already  laid 
in  it  for  three  ;  and  the  napkins  are  folded  in  cocked-hat 
fashion.  The  floors  are  of  red  tile.  There  are  no  car- 
pets/and  not  much  furniture  to  speak  of  ;  but  there  is 


148  '    WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


abundance  of  looking-glasses,  and  there  are  large  vases 
under  glass  shades,  filled  with  artificial  flowers  ;  and 
there  are  plenty  of  clocks.  The  whole  party  aie  in 
motion.  The  brave  Courier,  in  particular,  is  every- 
where :  looking  after  the  beds,  having  wine  poured  down 
his  throat  by  his  dear  brother  the  landlord,  and  picking 
up  green  cucumbers — always  cucumbers  ;  Heaven  knows 
where  he  gets  them — with  which  he  walks  about,  one  in 
each  hand,  like  truncheons. 

Dinner  is  announced.  There  is  very  thin  soup  ;  there 
are  very  large  loaves — one  apiece  ;  a  fish  ;  four  dishes 
afterwards  ;  some  poultry  afterwards ;  a  dessert  after- 
wards ;  and  no  lack  of  wine.  There  is  not  much  in  the 
dishes  ;  but  they  are  very  good,  and  always  ready  in- 
stantly. When  it  is  nearly  dark,  the  brave  Courier, 
having  eaten  the  two  cucumbers,  sliced  up  in  the  con- 
tents of  a  pretty  large  decanter  of  oil,  and  another  of 
vinegar,  emerges  from  his  retreat  below,  and  proposes  a 
visit  to  the  Cathedral,  whose  massive  tower  frowns  down 
upon  the  courtyard  of  the  inn.  Off  we  go  ;  and  very 
solemn  and  grand  it  is,  in  the  dim  light :  so  dim  at  last, 
that  the  polite,  old,  lanthorn-jawed  Sacristan  .has  a 
feeble  little  bit  of  candle  in  his  hand,  to  grope  among 
the  tombs  with — and  looks  among  the  grim  columns, 
very  like  a  lost  ghost  who  is  searching  for  his  own. 

Underneath  the  balcony,  when  we  return,  the  inferior 
servants  of  the  inn  are  supping  in  the  open  air,  at  a 
great  table  ;  the  dish  a  stew  of  meat  and  vegetables, 
smoking  hot,  and  served  in  the  iron  caldron  it  was 
boiled  in.  They  have  a  pitcher  of  thin  wine,  and  are 
Tery  merry ;  merrier  than  the  gentleman  with  the  red 
beard,  who  is  playing  billiards  in  the  light  room  on  the 
left  of  the  yard,  where  shadows,  with  cues  in  their 
bands,  and  cigars  in  their  mouths,  cross  and  recross  the 
window,  constantly.  Still  the  thin  Cure  walks  up  and 
down  alone,  with  his  book  and  umbrella.  And  there  he 
walks,  and  there  the  billiard-balls  rattle,  long  after  we 
are  fast  asleep. 

We  are  astir  at  six  next  morning.  It  is  a  delightful 
day,  shaming  yesterday's  mud  upon  the  carriage,  if  any- 
thing could  shame  a  carriage,  in  a  land  where  carriages 
are  never  cleaned.  Everybody  is  brisk  ;  and  as  we  finish 
breakfast,  the  horses  come  jingling  into  the  yard  from 
the  Post-house.  Everything  taken  out  of  the  carriage 
is  put  back  again.  The  brave  Courier  announces  that 
all  is  ready,  after  walking  into  every  room,  and  looking 
all  round  it,  to  be  certain  that  nothing  is  left  behind. 
Everybody  gets  in.  Everybody  connected  with  the 
Hotel  de  TEcu  d'Or  is  enchanted.  The  brave  Courier 
runs  into  the  house  for  a  parcel  containing  cold  ^fowL 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


149 


sliced  ham,  bread,  and  biscuits,  for  luncli  ;  bands  it  into 
the  coach  ;  and  runs  back  again. 

What  has  he  got  in  his  hand  now?  More  cucumbers? 
No.    A  long  strip  of  paper.    It*s  the  bill. 

The  brave  Courier  has  two  belts  on,  this  morning  :  one 
supporting  the  purse :  another,  a  mighty  good  sort  of 
leathern  Ibottle,  filled  to  the  throat  with  the  best  light 
Bordeaux  wine  in  the  house.  He  never  pays  the  bill  till 
this  bottle  is  full.    Then  he  disputes  it. 

He  disputes  it  now,  violently.  He  is  still  the  land- 
lord's brother,  but  by  another  father  or  mother.  He  is 
not  so  nearly  related  to  him  as  he  was  last  night.  The 
landlord  scratches  his  head.  The  brave  Courier  points 
to  certain  figures  in  the  bill,  dnd  intimates  that  if  they 
remain  there,  the  Hotel  de  I'Ecu  d'Or  is  thenceforth  and 
for  ever  an  hotel  de  TEcu  de  cuivre.  The  landlord  goes 
into  a  little  counting  house.  The  brave  Courier  follows, 
forces  the  bill  and  a  pen  into  his  hand,  and  talks  more 
rapidly  than  ever.  The  landlord  takes  the  pen.  The 
Courier  smiles.  The  landlord  makes  an  alteration.  The 
Courier  cuts  a  joke.  The  landlord  is  affectionate,  but 
not  weakly  so.  He  bears  it  like  a  man.  He  shakes 
hands  with  his  brave  brother,  but  he  don't  hug  him. 
Still,  he  loves  his  brother ;  for  he  knows  that  he  will  be 
returning  that  way,  one  of  these  fine  days,  with  another 
family,  and  he  foresees  that  his  heart  will  yearn  towards 
him  again.  The  brave  Courier  traverses  all  roTind  the 
carriage  once,  looks  at  the  drag,  inspects  the  wheels, 
jumps  up,  gives  the  word,  and  away  we  go  ! 

It  is  market  morning.  The  market  is  held  in  the  little 
square  outside,  in  front  of  the  cathedral.  It  is  crowded 
with  men  and  women,  in  blue,  in  red,  in  green,  in  white  5 
with  canvassed  stalls  ;  and  fluttering  merchandise.  The 
country  people  are  grouped  about,  with  their  clean 
baskets  before  them.  Here,  the  lace-sellers  ;  there,  the 
butter  and  egg  sellers  ;  there,  the  fruit-sellers  ;  there, 
the  shoemakers.  The  whole  place  looks  as  if  it  were  ths 
stage  of  some  great  theatre,  and  the  curtain  had  just  run 
up,  for  a  picturesque  ballet.  And  there  is  the  cathedral 
to  boot :  scene-like  :  all  grim,  and  swarthy,  and  moulder- 
ing, and  cold  :  just  splashing  the  pavement  in  one  place 
with  faint  purple  drops,  as  the  morning  sun,  entering  by 
a  little  window  on  the  eastern  side,  struggles  through 
some  stained-glass  panes,  on  the  wt:stern. 

In  five  minutes  we  have  passed  che  iron  cross,  with  a 
little  ragged  kneeling-place  of  curf  before  it,  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  ;  and  are  again  upon  the  lOad. 


150 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


LYONS,  THE  RHONE,  AND  THE  GOBLIN  OP 
AVIGNON. 

Chalons  is  a  fair  resting-place,  in  right  of  its  good  inn 
on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  the  little  steamboats,  gay 
with  green  and  red  paint,  that  come  and  go  upon  it  s 
which  make  up  a  pleasant  and  refreshing  scene,  after 
the  dusty  roads.  But,  unless  you  would  like  to  dwell 
on  an  enormous  plain,  with  jagged  rows  of  irregular 
poplars  on  it,  that  look  in  the  distance  like  so  many  combs 
with  broken  teeth  :  and  unless  you  would  like  to  pass 
your  life  without  the  possibility  of  going  up-hill,  or  going 
up  anything  but  stairs :  you  would  hardly  approve  of 
Chalons  as  a  place  of  residence. 

You  would  probably  like  it  better,  however,  than 
Lyons  :  which  you  may  reach,  if  you  will,  in  one  of  the 
before-mentioned  steamboats,  in  eight  hours. 

What  a  city  Lyons  is  !  Talk  about  people  feeling,  at 
certain  unlucky  times,  as  if  they  had  tumbled  from  the 
clouds  !  Here  is  a  whole  town  that  has  tumbled,  any- 
how, out  of  the  sky ;  having  been  first  caught  up,  like 
other  stones  that  tumble  dov/n  from  that  region,  out  of 
fens  and  barren  places,  dismal  to  behold  I  The  two  great 
streets  through  which  the  two  great  rivers  dash,  and  all 
the  little  streets  whose  name  is  Lesfion,  were  scorching, 
blistering,  and  sweltering.  The  houses,  high  and  vast, 
dirty  to  excess,  rotten  as  old  cheeses,  and  as  thickly  peo- 
pled. All  up  the  hills  that  hem  the  city  in,  these,  houses 
swarm  ;  and  the  mites  inside  were  lolling  out  of  the 
windows,  and  drying  their  ragged  clothes  on  poles,  and 
«rawling  in  and  out  at  the  doors,  and  coming  out  to  pant 
and  gasp  upon  the  pavement,  and  creeping  in  and  out 
among  huge  piles  and  bales  of  fusty,  musty,  stifling 
goods  ;  and  living,  or  rather  not  dying  till  their  time 
should  come,  in  an  exhausted  receiver.  Every  manu- 
facturing town,  melted  into  one,  would  hardly  convey  an 
impression  of  Lyons  as  it  presented  itself  to  me  :  for  all 
the  undrained,  unscavengered  qualities  of  a  foreign 
town,  seemed  grafted,  there,  upon  the  native  miseries  of 
a  manufacturing  one  ;  and  it  bears  such  fruit  as  I  would 
go  some  miles  out  of  my  way  to  avoid  encountering 
again. 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  :  or  rather  in  the  faded  heat 
of  the  day  :  we  went  to  see  the  Cathedral,  where  divers 
old  women,  and  a  few  dogs,  were  engaged  in  contempla- 
tion. There  was  no  difference,  in  point  of  cleanliness, 
between  its  stone  pavement  and  that  of  the  streets  ;  and 
there  was  a  wax  saint,  in  a  little  box  like  a  berth  aboard 
ship,  with  a  glass  front  to  it,  whom  Madame  Tussaud 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to,  on  any  terms,  and  which 
even  Westminster  Abbey  mi^ht  be  ashamed  of.    If  you 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


151 


would  know  all  about  tlie  architecture  of  this  churcTi, 
or  any  ocner,  its  dates,  dimensions,  endowments,  and 
history,  is  it  not  written  in  Mr.  Murray's  Guide-Book, 
and  may  you  not  read  it  there,  with  thanks  to  him,  as  I 
did! 

For  this  reason,  I  should  abstain  from  mentioning'  the 
curious  clock  in  Lyons  Cathedral,  if  it  were  not  for  a 
small  mistake  I  made,  in  connection  with  that  piece  of 
mechanism.  The  keeper  of  the  church  was  very  anx- 
ious it  should  be  shown  ;  partly  for  the  honour  of  the 
establishment  and  the  town ;  and  partly,  perhaps,  be- 
cause of  his  deriving  a  percentage  from  the  additional 
consideration.  However  that  may  be,  it  was  set  in 
motion,  and  thereupon  a  host  of  little  doors  flew  open, 
and  innumerabl  little  figures  staggered  out  of  them, 
and  jerked  themselves  back  again,  with  that  special  un- 
steadiness f  purpose,  and  hitching  in  the  gait,  which 
usually  -attaches  to  figures  that  are  moved  by  clock-work. 
Meanwhile,  the  Sacristan  stood  explaining  these  wonders, 
and  poin  ing  them  out,  severally,  with  a  wand.  There 
was  a  cen  re  ,ju.  pet  of  the  Virgin  Mary  ;  and  close  to 
her,  a  smc«ll  pi;  eon-hole,  out  of  which  another  and  a 
very  ill-1  oking  pu^  pet  made  one  of  the  most  sudden 
plunges  I  ev  r  aw  accomplished:  instantly  flopping 
back  again  at  sight  of  her,  and  banging  his  little  door, 
violently,  after  him.  Taking  this  to  be  emblematic  of 
the  victory  ver  Sin  and  Death,  and  not  at  all  unwilling  to 
show  that  I  perfectly  understood  the  subject,  in  antici- 
pation ^  "he  s-  owman,  I  rashly  said,  **  Aha  !  The  Evil 
Spirit.    T    be  sure.     He  is  very  soon  disposed  of.'* 

Pardon,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Sacristan,  with  a  polite 
motion  of  his  hand  towards  the  little  door,  as  if  intro- 
ducing somebody — **  The  Angel  Gabriel  !  '* 

Soon  after  d^^y-break  next  morning,  we  were  steaming 
down  the  Arrowy  Rhone,  at  the  rate  of  twenty  miles  an 
hour,  in  a  very  dirty  vessel  full  of  merchandise,  and 
with  only  three  or  four  other  passengers  for  our  com- 
panions :  among  whom,  the  most  remarkable  was  a  silly, 
bid,  meek- faced,  garlic-eating,  immeasurably- polite  Chev- 
alier, with  a  dirty  scrap  of  red  ribbon  hanging  at  his 
button-hol-^.  as  if  he  had  cied  it  there,  to  remind  himself 
of  something  :  as  Tom  Noddy,  in  the  farce,  ties  knots  in 
Jiis  pocket-handkerchief. 

For  the  last  two  days,  we  had  seen  great  sullen  hills, 
the  first  indications  of  the  Alps,  lowering  in  the  distance. 
Now,  we  were  rushing  on  beside  them  :  sometimes  close 
beside  them :  sometimes  with  an  intervening  slope, 
covered  with  vineyards.  Villages  and  small  town  hang- 
ing in  mid-air,  with  great  vroods  of  olives  seen  through 
the  light  open  towers  of  their  churches,  and  clouds  mov- 
ing slowly  on,  upon  the  steep  acclivity  behind  them  • 


152 


WORKS  OF  CilAKLES  DICKENS. 


ruined  castles  perched  on  every  eminence  ;  and  scattered 
houses  in  the  clefts  and  gulUes  of  the  hills  ;  made  it 
very  beautiful.  The  great  height  of  these,  too,  making 
^he  buildinfifs  look  so  tiny,  that  they  had  all  the  charm 
of  elegant  models  ;  their  excessive  whiteness,  as  con- 
trasted vrith  the  brown  rocks,  or  the  sombre,  deep,  dull, 
heavy  green  of  the  olive-tree  ;  and  the  puny  size,  and 
little  slow  walk  of  the  Lilliputian  men  and  women  on 
the  bank  ;  made  a  charming  picture.  There  were  ferries 
out  of  number,  too  ;  bridges  ;  the  famous  Pont  d'Esprit, 
with  I  don't  how  many  arches  ;  towns  where  memorable 
wines  are  made  ;  Vallence,  where  Napoleon  studied  ;  and 
the  noble  river,  bringing  at  every  winding  turn^  new 
beauties  into  view. 

There  lay  before  us,  that  same  afternoon,  the  brokem 
bridge  of  Avignon,  and  all  the  city  baking  in  the  sun ; 
yet  with  an  under-done- pie-crust,  battlemented  wall, 
that  never  will  be  brown,  though  it  bake  for  centuries. 

The  grapes  were  hanging  in  clusters  in  the  streets;, 
and  the  brilliant  Oleander  was  in  full  bloom  everywhere* 
The  streets  are  old  and  very  narrow,  but  tolerably  clean, 
and  shaded  by  awnings  stretched  from  house  to  house. 
Bright  stuffs  and  handkerchiefs,  curiosities,  ancient 
frames  of  carved  wood,  old  chairs,  ghostly  tables,  saints, 
virgins,  angels,  and  staring  daubs  of  portraits,  being  ex- 
posed for  sale  beneath,  it  was  very  quaint  and  lively. 
All  this  was  much  set  off,  too,  by  the  glimpses  one  caught, 
through  a  rusty  gate  standing  ajar,  of  quite  sleepy  court- 
yards, having  stately  old  houses  within,  as  silent  as 
tombs.  It  was  all  very  like  one  of  the  descriptions  in 
the  Arabian  Nights.  The  three  one-eyed  Calenders 
might  have  knocked  at  any  one  of  those  doors  till  the 
street  rang  again,  and  the  porter  who  persisted  in  asking 
questions — the  man  who  had  the  delicious  purchases 
put  into  his  basket  in  the  morning — might  have  opened 
it  quite  naturally. 

After  breakfast  next  morning,  we  sallied  forth  to  see  the 
lions.  Such  a  delicious  breeze  was  blowing  in,  from  the 
north,  as  made  the  walk  delightful :  though  the  pavement 
stones,  and  stones  of  the  walls  and  houses,  were  far  too 
hot  to  have  a  hand  laid  on  them  comfortably. 

We  went,  first  of  all,  up  a  rocky  height,  to  the  cathe- 
dral :  where  Mass  was  performing  to  an  auditory  very 
like  that  of  Lyons,  namely,  several  old  women,  a  baby, 
and  a  very  self-possessed  dog,  who  had  marked  out  for 
himself  a'little  course  or  platform  for  exercise,  beginning 
at  the  altar-rails  and  ending  at  the  door,  up  and  down 
which  constitutional  walk  he  trotted,  during  the  service, 
as  metliodically  and  calmly,  as  any  old  gentleman  ou  oi 
doors.  It  is  a  bare  old  chur  h,  and  the  paintings  in  the 
loof  are  sadly  defaced  by  time  and  damp  weaiher  ;  but 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


153 


the  suiQ  was  shining  in,  spl  ndidly,  through  the  red 
curtains  of  the  windows,  and  glitering  on  the  altar  fur- 
niture ;  and  it  looked  as  bright  and  cheerful  as  need  be. 

Going  apart,  in  this  Church,  to  see  some  painting 
which  was  being  executed  in  fresco  by  a  French  artist 
and  his  pupil,  I  was  led  to  observe  more  closely  than  I 
might  otherwise  have  done,  a  great  number  of  votive 
offerings  with  which  the  walls  of  the  different  chapels 
were  hung.  I  will  not  say  decorated,  for  they  were 
very  roughly  and  comically  got  up  :  most  likely  by  poor 
sign-painters,  who  eke  out  their  living  in  that  way. 
They  were  all  little  pictures  :  each  representing  some 
sickness  or  calamity  from  which  the  person  placing  it 
there,  had  escaped  through  the  interposition  of  his  or 
her  patron  saint,  or  of  the  Madonna  ;  and  I  may  refer  to 
them  as  good  specimens  of  the  class  generally.  They 
are  abundant  in  Italy. 

In  a  grotesque  squareness  of  outline,  and  impossibility 
of  perspective,  they  were  not  unlike  the  woodcuts  in  old 
books  ;  but  they  were  oil-paintings,  and  the  artist,  like 
the  painter  of  the  Primrose  family,  had  not  been  spar- 
ing of  his  colours.  In  one,  a  lady  was  having  a  toe  am- 
putated— an  operation  which  a  saintly  personage  had 
sailed  into  the  room,  upon  a  cloud,  to  superintend.  In  an- 
other, a  lady  was  lying  in  bed,  tucked  up  very  tight  and 
trim,  and  staring  with  much  composure  at  a  tripod,  with 
a  slop-basin  on  it  :  the  usual  form  of  washing-stand,  and 
the  only  piece  of  furniture,  besides  the  bedstead,  in  her 
chamber.  One  would  never  have  supposed  her  to  be  labour- 
ing under  any  complaint,  beyond  the  inconvenience  of  be- 
ing miraculously  wide  awake,  if  the  painter  had  not  hit 
upon  the  idea  of  putting  all  her  family  on  tl  eir  knees  in 
one  comer,  with  their  legs  sticking  out  belli  nd  them  on 
the  floor,  like  boot-trees.  Above  whom,  the  Virgin,  on  a 
kind  of  blue  divan,  promised  to  restore  the  patient.  In 
'another  case,  a  lady  was  in  the  very  act  of  being  run 
over,  immediately  outside  the  city  walls,  by  a  sort  of 
piano-forte  van.  But  the  Madonna  was  there  again. 
Whether  the  supernatural  appearance  had  startled  the 
horse  (a  bay  griffin)  or  whether  it  was  invisible  to  him, 
I  don't  know ;  but  he  was  galloping  away,  ding-dong, 
without  the  smallest  reverence  or  compunction.  On 
every  picture  Ex  voto  "  was  painted  in  yellow  capitals 
in  the  sky. 

Though  votive  offerings  were  not  unknown  in  Pagan 
Temples,  and  are  evidently  among  the  many  compromises 
made  between  the  false  religion  and  the  true,  when  the 
true  was  in  its  infancy,  I  could  wish  that  all  the  other 
compromises  were  as  harmless.  Gratitude  and  Devotion 
are  Christian  qualities  ;  and  a  grateful,  humble,  Chris- 
tian spirit  may  dictate  the  observance. 


154  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Hard  by  the  catliedral,  stands  the  ancient  Palace  of 
the  Popes,  of  which  one  portion  is  now  a  common  jail, 
and  another  a  noisy  barrack  :  while  gloomy  suites  af 
state  apartments,  shut  up  and  deserted,  mock  their  own 
old  state  'and  glory,  like  the  embalmed  bodies  of  kings. 
But  we  neither  went  there  to  see  state-rooms,  nor  sol- 
diers' quarters,  nor  a  common  jail,  through  we  dropped 
some  money  into  a  prisoners'  box  outside,  whilst  the 
prisoners,  themselves,  looked  throuo^h  the  iron  bars,  high 
up,  and  watched  us  eagerly.  We  went  to  see  the  ruins 
of  the  dreadful  rooms  in  which  the  Inquisition  used  to 
sit. 

A  little,  old,  swarthy  woman,  with  a  pair  of  flashing 
black  eyes, — proof  that  the  world  hadn't  conjured  down 
the  devil  within  her,  though  it  had  had  between 
sixty  and  seventy  years  to  do  it  in, — came  out  of  tlie 
Barrack  Cabaret,  of  which  she  was  tlie  keeper,  with 
some  large  keys  in  her  hands,  and  marshalled  us  the  way 
that  we  should  go.  How  she  told  us,  on  the  way,  that 
she  was  a  Government  Oflicer  {concierge  du  palais  apos- 
tolique),  and  had  been,  for  I  don't  know  how  ma.ny  years  ; 
and  how  she  had  shown  these  dungeons  to  princes  :  and 
how  she  was  the  best  of  dungeon  demonstrators ;  and 
how  she  had  resided  in  the  palace  from  an  infant, — ^had 
been  born  there,  if  I  recollect  right, — I  needn't  relate. 
But  such  a  fierce,  little,  rapid,  sparkling,  energetic  she- 
devil  I  never  beheld.  She  was  alight  and  flaming,  all 
the  time.  Her  action  was  violent  in  the  extreme.  She 
never  spoke,  without  stopping  expressly  for  the  purpose. 
She  stamped  her  feet,  clutched  us  by  the  arms,  flung 
herself  into  attitudes,  hammered  against  walls  with  her 
keys,  for  mere  emphasis  :  now  whispered  as  if  the  In- 
quisition were  there  still :  now  shrieked  as  if  she  were 
on  the  rack  herself  ;  and  had  a  mysterious,  hag-like  way 
with  her  forefinger,  when  approaching  the  remains  of 
some  new  horror — ^loo]v:ing  back  and  walking  stealthily, 
and  making  horrible  grimaces — that  might  alone  have 
qualified  her  to  walk  up  and  down  a  sick  man's  counter- 
pane, to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  figures,  through  a 
whole  fever. 

Passing  through  the  court-yard,  among  groups  of  idle 
soldiers,  we  turned  off  by  a  gate,  which  this  She-Goblin 
unlocked  for  our  admission,  and  locked  again  behind  us  : 
and  entered  a  narrow  court,  rendered  narrower  by  fallen 
stones  and  heaps  of  rubbish  ;  part  of  it  choking  up  the 
mouth  of  a  ruined  subterranean  passage,  that  once  com- 
municated (or  is  said  to  have  done  so)  with  another  castle 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river.  Close  to  this  court- 
yard, is  a  dungeon — we  stood  within  it,  in  another  min- 
ute— in  the  dismal  tower  c^cs  oubliettes,  where  Rienzi  was 
imprisoned,  fastened  by  an  iron  chain  to  the  very  wall 


PICTURES  FUOM  ITALY. 


155 


that  stands  there  now,  t>ut  shut  out  from  the  sky  which 
now  looks  down  into  it.  A  f^w  steps  brought  us  to  the 
Cachets,  in  which  the  prisoners  of  the  Inquisition  were 
confined  for  forty-eight  hours  after  their  capture,  with- 
out food  or  drink,  that  their  constancy  might  be  shaken, 
even  before  they  were  confronted  with  their  gloomy 
judges.  The  day  has  not  got  in  there  yet.  They  are 
Btill  small  cells,  shut  in  by  four  unyielding,  close,  hard 
walls ;  still  profoundly  dark  ;  still  massively  doored  and 
fastened,  as  of  old.  Goblin,  looking  back  as  I  have 
described,  went  softly  on  into  a  vaulted  chamber,  now 
used  as  a  store-room :  once  the  chapel  of  the  Holy 
Office.  The  place  where  the  tribunal  sat,  was  plain. 
The  platform  might  have  been  removed  but  yesterday. 
Conceive  the  parable  of  the  Good  Samaritan  having  been 
fainted  on  the  wall  of  one  of  these  Inquisition  chambers  1 
But  it  was,  and  may  be  traced  there  yet. 

High  up  in  the  jealous  wall,  are  niches  where  the 
faltering  replies  of  the  accused  were  heard  and  noted 
down.  Many  of  them  had  been  brought  out  of  the  very 
cell  we  had  just  looked  into,  so  awfully  ;  along  the  same 
stone  passage.    We  had  trodden  in  their  very  footsteps. 

I  am  gazing  round  me,  with  the  horror  that  the  place 
inspires,  when  Goblin  clutches  me  by  the  wrist,  and  lays, 
not  her  skinny  finger,  but  the  handle  of  a  key,  upon  hel 
lip.  She  invites  me,  with  a  jest,  to  follow  her.  I  do  so. 
She  leads  me  out  into  a  room  adjoining — a  rugged  room, 
with  a  funnel-shaped,  contracting  roof,  open  at  the  top, 
to  the  bright  day.  I  ask  her  what  it  is.  She  folds  her 
arms,  leers  hideously,  and  stares.  I  ask  again.  She 
glances  round,  to  see  that  all  the  little  company  are 
there ;  sits  down  upon  a  mound  of  stones  ;  throws  up 
her  arms,  and  yells  out  like  a  fiend,  La  Salle  de  la  Ques- 
tion  1'' 

The  Chamber  of  Torture  !  And  the  roof  was  made  of 
that  shape  to  stifle  the  victim's  cries  !  Oh  Goblin,  Gob- 
lin, let  us  think  of  this  awhile,  in  silence.  Peace,  Goblin  ! 
Sit  with  your  short  arms  crossed  on  your  short  legs,  upon 
that  heap  of  stones,  for  only  five  minutes,  and  then  flame 
out  again. 

Minutes  I  Seconds  are  not  marked  upon  the  Palace 
clock,  when,  with  her  eyes  flashing  fire,  Goblin  is  up, 
in  the  middle  of  the  chamber,  describing,  with  her  sun- 
burnt arms,  a  wheel  of  heavy  blows.  Thus  it  ran  round  1 
cries  Goblin.  Mash,  mash,  mash  !  An  endless  routine 
of  heavy  hammers.  Mash,  mash,  mash  I  upon  the 
sufferer's  limbs.  See  the  stone  trough  !  says  Goblin. 
For  the  water  torture  1  Gurgle,  swill,  bloat,  burst,  for 
the  Redeemer's  honour  I  Suck  the  bloody  rag,  deep 
down  into  your  unbelieving  body.  Heretic,  at  every 
breath  you  draw  I  And  when  the  executioner  plucks  it 
out,  reeking  with  the  smaller  mysteries  of  God's  owd 


156  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DlCKENS. 


Image,  know  us  for  liis  chosen  servants,  true  believers 
in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  elect  disciples  of  Him  who 
never  did  a  miracle  but  to  heal :  who  never  struck  a  man 
with  palsy,  blindness,  deafness,  dumbness,  madness,  any 
one  affliction  of  mankind;  and  never  stretched  His  blessed 
hand  out,  but  to  give  relief  and  ease  ! 

See  I  cries  Goblin.  There  the  furnace  was.  There 
they  made  the  irons  red  hot.  Those  holes  supported  the 
sharp  stake,  on  which  the  tortured  persons  hung  poised  : 
dangling  with  their  whole  weight  from  the  roof.  But ; " 
and  Goblin  whispers  this  ;  Monsieur  has  heard  of  this 
tower?   Yes?    Let  Monsieur  look  down,  then  !  " 

A  cold  air,  laden  with  an  earthy  smell,  falls  upon  the 
face  of  Monsieur  ;  for  she  has  opened,  while  speaking,  a 
trap-door  in  the  wall.  Monsieur  looks  in.  Downward 
to  the  bottom,  upward  to  the  top,  of  a  steep,  dark,  lofty 
tower  :  very  dismal,  very  dark,  very  cold.  The  Execu- 
tioner of  the  Inquisition,  says  Goblin,  edging  in  her  head 
to  look  down  also,  flung  those  who  were  past  all  further 
torturing,  down  here.  **  But  look  !  does  Monsieur  see 
the  black  stains  on  the  wall  ?  "  A  glance,  over  his  shoul- 
der, at  Goblin's  keen  eye,  shows  Monsieur — and  would 
without  the  aid  of  the  directing-key — where  they  are. 

What  are  they  ?  "      Blood  !  " 

In  October,  1791,  when  the  Revolution  was  at  its 
height  here,  sixty  persons  :  men  and  women  ("  and 
priests,''  says  Goblin,  ''priests")  :  were  murdered,  and 
hurled,  the  dying  and  the  dead,  into  this  dreadful  pit, 
where  a  quantity  of  quick-lime  was  tumbled  down  upon 
their  bodies.  Those  ghastly  tokens  of  the  massacre 
were  soon  no  more  ;  but  while  one  stone  of  the  strong 
building  in  which  the  deed  was  done,  remains  upon  an- 
other, there  they  will  lie  in  the  memories  of  men,  as 
plain  to  see  as  the  splashing  of  their  blood  upon  the  wall 
is  now. 

Was  it  a  portion  of  the  great  scheme  of  Retribution, 
that  the  cruel  deed  should  be  committed  in  this  place! 
That  a  part  of  the  atrocities  and  monstrous  institutions, 
which  had  been,  for  scores  of  years,  at  work,  to  change 
men's  nature,  should  in  its  last  service,  tempt  them  with 
the  ready  means  of  gratifying  their  furious  and  beastly 
rage  !  Should  enable  them  to  show  themselves,  in  the 
height  of  their  frenzy,  no  worse  than  a  great,  solemn, 
legal  establishment,  in  the  height  of  its  power  !  No 
worse  1  Much  better.  They  used  the  Tower  of  the  For* 
gotten,  in  the  name  of  Liberty — their  liberty  ;  an  earth- 
born  creature,  nursed  in  the  black  mud  of  the  Bastile 
moats  and  dungeons,  and  necessarily  betraying  many 
"evidences  of  its  unwholesome  bringing-up — ^but  the  In- 

\isition  used  it  in  the  name  of  Heaven. 

Goblin's  finger  is  lifted  ;  and  she  steals  out  again,  in-  * 
to  the  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Office.    She  stops  at  a  certain 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


157 


part  of  the  flooring.  Her  great  effect  is  at  hand.  She 
waits  for  the  rest.  She  darts  at  the  brave  Courier,  who  is 
explaining  something  ;  hits  him  a  sounding  rap  on  the 
hat  with  the  largest  keys  ;  and  bids  him  be  silent.  She 
assembles  us  all,  round  a  little  trap-door  in  the  floor,  as 
round  a  grave.  **  Voila  !  "  she  darts  down  at  the  ring, 
and  flings  the  door  open  with  a  crash,  in  her  goblin 
energy,  though  it  is  no  light  weight.  **  Voil^  les 
oubliettes  I  Voila  les  oubliettes  I  Subterranean  1  Fright- 
ful !  Black !  Terrible  1  Deadly  I  Les  oubliettes  de 
r Inquisition  I " 

My  blood  ran  cold,  as  I  looked  from  Goblin,  down  into 
vaults,  where  these  forgotten  creatures,  with  recol- 
lections of  the  world  outside  :  of  wives,  friends,  chil- 
dren, brothers  ;  starved  to  death,  and  made  the  stones 
ring  ^ith  their  unavailing  groans.  But,  the  thrill  I  felt 
on  seeing  the  accursed  wall  below,  decayed  and  broken 
through,  and  the  sun  shining  in  through  its  gaping 
wounds,  was  like  a  sense  of  victory  and  triumph.  I 
felt  exalted  with  the  proud  delight  of  living,  in  these 
degenerate  times,  to  see  it.  As  if  I  were  the  hero  of 
some  high  achievement  I  The  light  in  the  doleful  vaults 
was  typical  of  the  light  that  has  streamed  in,  on  all  per- 
secution in  God's  name,  but  which  is  not  yet  at  its  noon  ! 
It  cannot  look  more  lovely  to  a  blind  man  newly  restored 
to  sight,  than  to  a  traveller  who  sees  it,  calmly  and 
majestically,  treading  down  the  darkness  of  that  Infernal 
WeU. 


AVIGNON  TO  GENOA. 

Goblin  having  shown  les  oubliettes,  felt  that  her  great 
coup  was  struck.  She  let  the  door  fall  with  a  crash,  and 
stood  upon  it  with  her  arms  a-kimbo,  sniffing  prodigi- 
ously. 

When  we  left  the  place,  I  accompanied  her  into  her 
house  under  the  outer  gateway  of  the  fortress,  to  buy  a 
little  history  of  the  building.  Her  cabaret,  a  dark  low 
room,  lighted  by  small  windows,  sunk  in  the  thick  wall 
— in  the  softened  light,  and  with  its  forge-like  chimney  ; 
its  little  counter  by  the  door,  with  bottles,  jars,  and 
glasses  on  it ;  its  household  implements  and  scraps  of 
dress  against  the  wall  ;  and  a  sober-looking  woman  (she 
must  have  a  congenial  life  of  it,  with  Goblin,)  knitting 
at  the  door — looked  exactly  like  a  picture  by  Ostade. 

I  walked  around  the  building  on  the  outside,  in  a  sort 
of  dream,  and  yet  with  the  delightful  sense  of  having 
awakened  from  it,  of  which  the  light,  down  in  the  vaults, 
had  given  me  the  assurance.    The  immense  thickness 


158  WORKS  OF  CHAKilLES  DICKENS. 


and  giddy  height  of  the  walls,  the  enorraous  titrength  of 
the  massive  towers,  the  great  extent  of  the  building,  its 
gigantic  proportions,  frowning  aspect,  and  barbarous  ir- 
regularity, awaken  awe  and  wonder.  The  recollection 
of  its  opposite  old  uses  ;  an  impregnable  fortress,  a  luxu- 
rious palace,  a  horrible  prison,  a  place  of  torture,  the 
court  of  the  Inquisition  :  at  one  and  the  same  time,  a 
house  of  feasting,  fighting,  religion,  and  blood  :  gives  to 
every  stone  in  its  huge  form  a  fearful  interest,  and  im- 
parts new  meaning  to  its  incongruities.  I  could  think 
of  little,  however,  then,  or  long  afterwards,  but  the  sun 
in  the  dungeons.  The  palace  coming  down  to  be  the 
lounging- place  of  noisy  soldiers,  and  being  forced  to  echo 
their  rough  talk,  and  common  oaths,  and  to  have  their 
garments  fluttering  from  its  dirty  windows,  was  some 
reduction  of  its  state,  and  something  to  rejoice  at ;  but 
the  day  in  its  cells,  and  the  sky  for  the  roof  of  its 
chambers  of  cruelty — that  was  its  desolation  and  defeat ! 
If  I  had  seen  it  in  a  blaze  from  ditch  to  rampart,  I  should 
have  felt  that  not  that  light,  nor  all  the  light  in  all  the 
fire  that  burns,  could  waste  it,  like  the  sunbeams  in 
its  secret  council-chamber,  and  its  prisons. 

Before  I  quit  this  Palace  of  the  Popes,  let  me  translate 
from  tne  little,  historv  ^  mentioned  just  now,  a  short  anec- 
dote, quite  appropriate  to  itself,  connected  with  its  ad 
ventures. 

**  An  ancient  tradition  relates,  that  in  1441,  a  nephew 
of  Pierre  de  Lude,  the  Pope's  legate,  seriously  insulted 
some  distinguished  ladies  of  Avignon,  whose  relations,  in 
revenge,  seized  the  young  man,  and  horribly  mutilated 
him.  For  several  years  the  legate  kept  hu  revenge  within 
his  own  breast,  but  he  was  not  the  less  resolved  upon  its 
gratification  at  last.  He  even  made,  in  the  fulness  of 
time,  advances  towards  a  complete  reconciliation  ;  and 
when  their  apparent  sincerity  had  prevailed,  he  invited 
to  a  splendid  banquet,  in  this  palace,  certain  families, 
whole  families,  whom  he  sought  to  exterminate.  The 
utmost  gaiety  animated  the  repast ;  but  the  measures  of 
the  legate  were  well  taken.  When  the  dessert  was  on 
the  board,  a  Swiss  presented  himself,  with  the  announce- 
ment that  a  strange  ambassador  solicited  an  extraordinary 
audience.  The  legate,  excusing  himself,  for  the  mo- 
ment, to  his  guests,  retired,  followed  by  his  officers. 
Within  a  few  moments  afterwards,  five  hundred  per- 
sons were  reduced  to  ashes  :  the  whole  of  that  wing  of  the 
building  having  been  blown  into  the  air  with  a  terrible 
explosion  ! " 

After  seeing  the  churches  (I  will  not  trouble  you  with 
churches  just  now),  we  left  Avignon  that  afternoon. 
The  heat  being  very  great,  the  roads  outside  the  walls 
were  strewn  with  people  fast  asleep  in  every  little  slip 


PICTURES  FKOM  ITALY. 


159 


of  shade,  and  with  lazy  groups,  half  asleep  and  half 
awake,  who  were  waiting  until  the  sun  should  be  low 
enough  to  admit  of  their  playing  bowls  among  the  burnt- 
up  trees,  and  on  the  dusty  road.  The  harvest  here,  was 
already  gathered  in,  and  mules  and  horses  were  treading 
out  the  corn  in  the  fields.  We  came,  at  dusk,  upon  a 
wild  and  hilly  country,  once  famous  for  brigands  :  and 
travelled  slowly  up  a  steep  ascent.  So  we  went  on,  un- 
til eleven  at  night,  when  we  halted  at  the  town  of  Aix 
(within  two  stages  of  Marseilles)  to  sleep. 

The  hotel,  with  all  the  blinds  and  shutters  closed  tc 
keep  the  light  and  heat  out,  was  comfortable  and  airy 
next  morning,  and  the  town  was  very  clean  ;  but  so  hot, 
and  so  intensely  light,  that  when  I  walked  out  at  noon 
it  was  like  coming  suddenly  from  the  darkened  room  in= 
to  crisp  blue  fire.  The  air  was  so  very  clear,  that  dis- 
tant hills  and  rocky  points  appeared  within  an  hour's 
walk  :  while  the  town  immediately  at  hand — with  a  kind 
of  blue  wind  between  me  and  it — seemed  to  be  white 
hot,  and  to  be  throwing  off  a  fiery  air  from  its  surface. 

We  left  this  town  towards  evening,  and  took  the  road 
to  Marseilles.  A  dusty  road  it  was  ;  the  houses  shut  up 
close  ;  and  the  vines  powdered  white.  At  nearly  all  the 
cottage  doors,  women  were  peeling  and  slicing  onions 
into  earthen  bowls  for  supper.  So  they  had  been  doing 
last  night  all  the  way  from  Avignon.  W^e  passed  one  or 
two  shady  dark  chateaux,  surrounded  by  trees,  and  em- 
bellished with  cool  basins  of  water  :  which  were  the 
more  refreshing  to  behold,  from  the  great  scarcity  of 
such  residences  on  the  road  we  had  travelled.  As  we 
approached  Marseilles,  the  road  began  to  be  covered 
with  holiday  people.  Outside  the  public-houses  were  par- 
ties smoking,  drinking,  playing  draughts  and  cards,  and 
(once)  dancing.  But  dust,  dust,  dust,  e very wh are.  We 
went  on,  through  a  long,  straggling,  dirty  subuib  throng- 
ed with  people  ;  having  on  our  left  a  dreary  slope  of  land, 
on  which  the  country-houses  of  the  Marseilles  merchants, 
always  staring  white,  are  jumbled  and  heaped  without 
the  slightest  order  :  backs,  fronts,  sides,  and  gables  to= 
wards  all  points  of  the  compass ;  until,  at  last,  we  en= 
tered  the  town. 

I  was  there,  twice  or  thrice  afterwards,  in  fair  weather 
and  foul  ;  and  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  is  a 
dirty  and  disagreeable  place.  But  the  prospect,  from 
the  fortified  height,  of  the  beautiful  Mediterranean, with 
its  lovely  rocks  and  islands,  is  most  delightful.  These 
heights  are  a  desirable  retreat,  for  less  picturesque  rea- 
sons— as  an  escape  from  a  compound  of  vile  smells  per 
petually  arising  from  a  great  harbour  full  of  stagnant 
water,  and  befouled  by  the  refuse  of  innumerable  ships 


160 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


with  all  sorts  of  cargoes  :  which,  in  hot  weather,  is 
dreadful  in  the  last  degree. 

There  were  foreign  sailors,  of  all  nations,  in  the  streets; 
with  red  shirts,  blue  shirts,  buff  shirfcs,  tawny  shirts,  and 
shirts  of  orange  colour  ;  with  rsd  caps,  blue' caps,  ^freen 
caps,  great  beards,  and  no  beards  ;  in  Turkish  turbans, 
glazed  English  hats,  and  Neapolitan  head-dresses.  There 
were  the  townspeople  sitting  in  clusters  on  the  pavement 
or  airing  themselves  on  the  tops  of  their  houses,  or  walk- 
ing Tip  and  down  the  closest  and  least  airy  of  Boulevards  ; 
and  there  were  crowds  of  fierce-looking  people  of  the 
lower  sort,  blocking  up  the  way,  constantly.  In  the  very 
heart  of  all  this  stir  and  uproar,  was  the  common  mad- 
house ;  a  low,  contracted,  miserable  building,  looking 
straight  upon  the  street,  without  the  smallest  screen  or 
court-yard  ;  where  chattering  madmen  and  mad  women 
were  peeping  out,  through  rusty  bars,  at  the  staring 
faces  below,  while  the  sun,  darting  fiercely  aslant  into 
their  little  cells,  seemed  to  dry  up  their  brains,  and 
worry  them,  as  if  they  were  baited  by  a  pack  of  dogs. 

We  were  pretty  well  accommodated  at  the  Hotel  du 
i^aradis,  situated  in  a  narrow  street  of  very  high  houses 
with  a  hairdresser's  shop  opposite,  exhibiting  in  one  of 
its  windows  two  full-length  waxen  ladies,  twirling  round 
and  round  :  which  so  enchanted  the  hairdresser  himself, 
that  he  and  his  family  sat  in  arm-chairs,  and  in  cool  un- 
dresses, on  the  pavement  outside,  enjoying  the  gratifi- 
cation of  the  passers-by,  with  lazy  dignity.  The  family 
had  retired  to  rest  when  we  went  to  bed,  at  midnight ; 
but  the  hairdresser  (a  corpulent  man,  in  drab  slippers) 
was  still  sitting  there,  with  his  legs  stretched  out  before 
him,  and  evidently  couldn't  bear  to  have  the  shutters 
put  up. 

Next  day  we  went  dovm  to  the  harbour,  where  the  sail- 
ors of  all  nations  were  discharging  and  taking  in  cargoes 
of  all  kinds  :  fruits,  wines,  oils,  silks,  stuffs,  velvets,  and 
every  manner  of  merchandise.  Taking  one  of  a  great 
number  of  lively  little  boats  with  gay-striped  awnings, 
we  rowed  away,  under  the  sterns  of  great  ships,  under 
tow-ropes  and  cables,  against  and  among  other  boats, 
and  very  much  too  near  the  sides  of  vessels  that  were 
faint  with  oranges,  to  the  Marie  Antoinette,  a  handsome 
steamer  bound  for  Genoa,  lying  near  the  mouth  of  the 
harbour.  By-and-by,  the  carriage,  that  unwieldy  trifle 
from  tlie  Pantechnicon/'  on  a  flat  barge,  bumping  against 
every  tiling,  and  giving  occasion  for  a  prodigious  quantity 
of  oaths  and  grimaces,  came  stupidly  alongside  ;  and  by 
five  o'clock  we  were  steaming  out  in  the  open  sea.  The 
vessel  was  beautifully  clean ;  the  meals  were  served 
under  an  awning  on  deck  ;  the  night  was  calm  and  clear ; 
the  quiet  beauty  of  the  sea  and  sky  unspeakable. 

We  were  off  Nice,  early  next  morning,  and  coasted 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


161 


along,  withia  a  few  miles  of  the  Cornice  road  (of  which 
more  in  its  place)  nearly  all  day.  We  could  see  Genoa 
before  three  ;  and  watching  it  as  it  gradually  developed 
its  splendid  amphitheatre,  terrace  rising  above  terrace, 
garden  above  garden,  palace  above  palace,  height  upon 
height,  was  ample  occupation  for  us,  till  we  ran  into  the 
stately  harbour.  Having  been  duly  astonished,  here,  by 
the  sight  of  a  few  Cappucini  monks,  who  were  watching 
the  fair- weighing  of  some  wood  upon  the  wharf,  we 
drove  off  to  Albaro,  two  miles  distant,  where  we  had  en- 
gaged a  house. 

The  way  lay  through  the  main  streets,  but  not  through 
the  Strada  Nuova,  or  the  Strada  Balbi,  which  are  the 
famous  streets  of  palaces.  I  never,  in  my  life,  was  so 
dismayed  !  The  wonderful  novelty  of  everything,  the 
unusual  smells,  the  unaccountable  filth  (though  it  is 
reckoned  the  cleanest  of  Italian  towns),  the  disorderly 
jumbling  of  dirty  houses,  one  upon  the  roof  of  another; 
the  passages  more  squalid  and  more  close  than  any  in 
Saint  Giles's  or  old  Paris  ;  in  and  out  of  which,  not  vag^ 
abonds,  but  well-dressed  women,  with  white  veils  and 
great  fans,  were  passing  and  repassing  ;  the  perfect  ab- 
sence of  resemblance  in  any  dwelling-house,  or  shop,  or 
wall,  or  post,  or  pillar,  to  anything  one  had  ever  seen 
before  ;  and  the  disheartening  dirt,  discomfort,  and  de- 
cay ;  perfectly  confounded  me.  I  fell  into  a  dismal  rev 
erie.  I  am  conscious  of  a  feverish  and  bewildered  vision 
of  saints  and  virgins'  shrines  at  the  street  corners — of 
great  numbers  of  friars,  monks,  and  soldiers — of  vast 
red  curtains,  waving  in  the  door- ways  of  the  churches — 
of  always  going  up  hill,  and  yet  seeingevery  other  street 
and  passage  going  higher  up — of  fruit-stalls,  with  fresh 
lemons  and  oranges  hanging  in  garlands  made  of  vine- 
leaves— of  a  guard-house,  and  a  draw-bridge — and  some 
gateways — and  venders  of  iced  water,  sitting  with  little 
trays  upon  the  margin  of  the  kennel — and  this  is  all  the 
consciousness  I  had,  until  I  was  set  down  in  a  rank,  dull 
weedy  courtyard,  attached  to  a  kind  of  pink  jail ;  and 
was  told  I  lived  there. 

I  little  thought,  that  day,  that  I  should  ever  come  to 
have  an  attachment  for  the  very  stones  in  the  streets  of 
Genoa,  and  to  look  back  upon  the  city  with  affection  as 
connected  \i\th  many  hours  of  happiness  and  quiet  I  But 
these  are  my  first  impressions  honestly  set  down  ;  and 
how  they  changed,  I  will  set  down  too.  At  present,  let 
us  breathe  after  this  long-winded  journey. 


FF 


Vol.  18 


162  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


GENOA  AND  ITS  NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

The  first  impressions  of  sucli  a  place  as  Alb  arc,  tlie 
suburb  of  Genoa  where  I  am  now,  as  my  American 
friends  would  say,  located,"  can  hardly  fail,  I  should 
imagine,  to  be  mournful  and  disappointing.  It  requires 
a  little  time  and  use  to  overcome  the  feeling  of  depres- 
sion consequent,  at  first,  on  so  much  ruin  and  neglect. 
Novelty,  pleasant  to  most  people,  is  particularly  delight- 
ful, I  think,  to  me.  I  am  not  easily  dispirited  when  I 
have  the  means  of  pursuing  my  own  fancies  and  occupa- 
tions ;  and  I  believe  I  have  some  natural  aptitude 
for  accommodating  myself  to  circumstances.  But,  as 
yet,  I  stroll  about  here,  in  all  the  holes  and  corners  of 
the  neighbourhood,  in  a  perpetual  state  of  forlorn  sur- 
prise ;  and  returning  to  my  villa  ;  the  Villa  Bagnerello  ; 
(it  sounds  romantic,  but  Signor  Bagnerello  is  a  butcher 
hard  by)  have  sufficient  occupation  in  pondering  over  my 
tiew  experiences,  and  comparing  them,  very  much  to  my 
own  amusement,  with  my  expectations,  until  I  wander 
again. 

The  Villa  Bagnerello  :  or  the  Pink  Jail,  a  far  more 
expressive  name  for  the  mansion  :  is  in  one  of  ths  most 
splendid  situations  imaginable.  The  noble  bay  of  Genoa, 
with  the  deep  blue  Mediterranean,  lie  stretched  out  near 
at  hand  ;  monstrous  old  desolate  houses  and  palaces  are 
dotted  all  about ;  lofty  hills,  with  their  tops  often  hidden 
in  the  clouds,  and  with  strong  forts  perched  high  up  on 
their  craggy  sides,  are  close  upon  the  left ;  and  in  front, 
stretching  from  the  walls  of  the  house,  down  to  a  ruined 
chapel  which  stands  upon  the  bold  and  picturesque 
rocks  on  the  sea-shore,  are  green  vineyards,  where  you 
may  wander  all  day  long  in  partial  shade,  through  in- 
terminable vistas  of  grapes,  trained  on  a  rough  trellis- 
work  across  the  narrow  paths. 

This  sequestered  spot  is  approached  by  lanes  so  very 
narrow,  that  when  we  arrived  at  the  Custom-house,  we 
found  the  people  here  had  taken  the  measure  of  the  nar- 
rowest among  them,  and  were  waiting  to  apply  it  to  the 
carriage  ;  which  ceremony  was  gravely  performed  in  the 
street,  while  we  all  stood  by  in  breathless  suspense.  It 
was  found  to  be  a  very  tight  fit,  but  just  a  possibility, 
and  no  more — as  I  am  reminded  every  day,  by  the  sight 
of  various  large  holes  which  it  punched  in  the  walls  on 
either  side  as  it  came  along,  We  are  more  fortunate,  I 
am  told,  than  an  old  lady  who  took  a  house  in  these 
parts  not  long  ago  and  who  stuck  fast  in  her  carriage  in 
a  lane  ;  and  as  it  was  impossible  to  open  one  of  the  doors, 
she  was  obliged  to  submit  to  the  indignity  of  being 
hauled  through  one  of  the  little  front  windows,  like  a 
harlequin. 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


163 


When  you  have  got  through  these  narrow  Janes,  you 
come  to  an  archway,  imperfectly  stopped  up  by  a  rusty 
old  gate — my  gate.  The  rusty  old  gate  has  a  bell  to 
correspond,  which  you  ring  as  long  as  you  like,  and 
which  nobody  answers,  as  it  has  no  connection  whatever 
with  the  house.  But  there  is  a  rusty  old  knocker,  too — • 
very  loose,  so  that  it  slides  round  when  you  touch  it — 
and  if  you  learn  the  trick  of  it,  and  knock  long  enough, 
somebody  comes.  The  Brave  Courier  comes,  and  gives 
you  admittance.  You  walk  into  a  seedy  little  garden, 
all  wild  and  weedy,  from  which  the  vineyard  opens  ; 
cross  it,  enter  a  square  hall  like  a  cellar,  walk  up  a 
cracked  marble  staircase,  and  pass  into  a  most  enormous 
room  with  a  vaulted  roof  and  whitewashed  walls  ;  not 
unlike  a  great  metliodist  chapel.  This  is  the  sala.  It 
has  five  windows  and  five  doors,  and  is  decorated  with 
pictures  which  would  gladden  the  heart  of  one  of  those 
picture-cleaners  in  London  who  hang  up,  as  a  sign,  a 
picture  divided,  like  death  and  the  lady,  at  the  top  of 
the  old  ballad  :  which  always  leaves  you  in  a  state  of 
uncertainty  whether  the  ingenious  professor  has  cleaned 
one  half  or  dirtied  the  other.  The  furniture  of  this  sala 
is  a  sort  of  red  brocade.  All  the  chairs  are  immovable, 
and  the  sofa  weighs  several  tons. 

On  the  same  flour,  and  opening  out  of  this  same 
chamber,  are  dining-room,  drawing-room,  and  divers 
bed-rooms  :  each  with  a  multiplicity  of  doors  and  win- 
dows. Up-stairs  are  divers  other  gaunt  chambers,  and 
a  kitchen  ;  and  down-stairs  is  another  kitchen,  which, 
with  all  sorts  of  strange  contrivances  for  burning  char- 
coal, looks  like  an  alchemical  laboratory.  There  are  also 
some  half-dozen  small  sitting-rooms,  where  the  servants, 
in  this  hot  July,  may  escape  from  the  heat  of  the  fire, 
and  where  the  Brave  Courier  plays  all  sorts  of  musical 
instruments  of  his  own  manufacture,  all  the  evening 
long.  A  mighty  old,  wandering,  ghostly,  echoing,  grim, 
bare  house  it  is,  as  ever  I  beheld  or  thought  of. 

There  is  a  little  vine-covered  terrace,  opening  from  the 
drawing-room  ;  and  under  this  terrace,  and  forming  one 
side  of  the  little  garden,  is  what  used  to  be  the  stable. 
It  is  now  a  cow-house,  and  has  three  cows  in  it,  so  that 
we  get  new  milk  by  the  bucket-full.  There  is  no  past- 
urage near,  and  they  never  go  out  but  are  constantly 
lying  down,  and  surfeitin £2:  themselves  with  \ane-leave3 
— perfect  Italian  cows — enjoying  the  dolcefar*  niente  all 
day  long.  They  are  presided  over,  and  slept  with,  by 
an  old  man  named  Antonio,  and  his  son  ;  two  burnt- 
sienna  natives  with  naked  legs  and  feet,  who  wear,  each, 
a  shirt,  a  pair  of  trousers,  and  a  red  sash,  with  a  relic, 
or  some  sacred  charm  like  a  bonbon  off  a  twelfth  cake, 
hanging  round  the  neck.    The  old  man  is  very  anxiou* 


164  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  convert  me  to  the  Catholic  Faith  ;  and  exhorts  me 
frequently.  We  sit  upon  a  stone  by  the  door,  sometimes, 
in  the  evening,  like  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday  reversed  ; 
and  he  generally  relates,  towards  my  conversion,  an 
abridgment  of  the  History  of  Saint  Peter— chiefly,  i 
believe,  from  the  unspeakable  delight  he  has  in  his 
imitation  of  the  cock. 

The  view,  as  I  have  said,  is  charming  ;  but  in  the  day 
you  must  keep  the  lattice-blinds  close  shut,  or  the  sun 
would  drive  you  mad  ;  and  when  the  sun  goes  down,  you 
must  shut  up  all  the  windows,  or  the  mosquitoes  would 
tempt  you  to  commit  suicide.  So  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  you  don't  see  much  of  the  prospect  within  doors. 
As  for  the  flies,  you  don't  mind  them.  Nor  the  fleas, 
whose  size  is  prodigious,  and  whose  name  is  Legion,  and 
who  populate  the  coach-house  to  that  extent  that  I  daily 
expect  to  see  the  carriage  going  off  bodily,  drawn  by  myr- 
iads of  industrious  fleas  in  harness.  The  rats  are  kept 
away,  quite  comfortably,  by  scores  of  lean  cats,  who 
roam  about  the  garden  for  that  purpose.  The  lizards,  of 
course,  nobody  cares  for  ;  they  play  in  the  sun,  and  don't 
bite.  The  little  scorpions  are  merely  curious.  The 
beetles  are  rather  late,  and  have  not  appeared  yet.  The 
frogs  are  company.  There  is  a  preserve  of  them  in  the 
grounds  of  the  next  villa  ;  and  after  night-fall,  one 
would  think  that  scores  upon  scores  of  women  in  pattens 
were  going  up  and  down  a  wet  stone  pavement  without 
a  moment's  cessation.  That  is  exactly  the  noise  they 
make. 

The  ruined  chapel,  on  the  picturesque  and  beautiful 
seashore,  was  dedicated,  once  upon  a  time,  to  Saint  John 
the  Baptist.  I  believe  there  is  a  legend  that  Saint 
John's  bones  were  received  there,  with  various  solemni- 
ties, when  they  were  first  brought  to  Genoa  ;  for  Genoa 
possesses  them  to  this  day.  When  there  is  any  uncom- 
mon tempest  at  sea,  they  are  brought  out  and  exhibited 
to  the  raging  weather.,  which  they  never  fail  to  calm.  In 
consequence  of  this  connection  of  Saint  John  with  the 
city,  great  numbers  of  the  common  people  are  christened 
Giovanni  Baptista,  which  latter  name  is  pronounced  in 
the  Genoese  patois  Batcheetcha,"  like  a  sneeze.  To 
hear  everybody  calling  everybody  else  Batcheetcha,  on  a 
Sunday,  or  Festa-day,  when  there  are  crowds  in  the 
streets,  is  not  a  little  singular  and  amusing  to  a  stranger. 

The  narrow  lanes  have  great  villas  opening  into  them, 
whose  walls  (out-side  walls,  I  mean),  are  profusely 
painted  with  all  sorts  of  subjects,  grim  and  holy.  But 
time  and  the  sea-air  have  nearly  blite rated  them  ;  and 
they  look  like  the  entrance  to  Vauxhall  Gardens  on  h 
sunny  day.  The  courtyards  of  these  houses  are  over^ 
grown  with  grass  and  weeds  ;  all  sorts  of  hideous  patches 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


165 


cover  the  bases  oi  tlie  statues,  as  if  they  were  afflicted 
with  a  cutaneous  disorder  ;  the  outer  gates  are  rusty  : 
and  the  iron  bars  outside  the  ?ower  windows  are  al] 
tumbling  down.  Firewood  is  kept  in  halls  where  costly 
treasures  might  be  heaped  up,  mountains  high  ;  water- 
falls are  dry  and  choked  ;  fountains,  too  dull  to  play, 
and  too  lazy  to  work,  have  just  enough  recollection  of 
their  identity,  in  their  sleep,  to  make  the  neighbour- 
hood damp  ;  and  the  sirocco  wind  is  often  blowing  over 
all  these  things  for  days  together,  like  a  gigantic  oven 
out  for  a  holiday. 

Not  long  ago,  there  was  a  festa-day,  in  honour  of  the 
Virgin's  motheTy  when  the  young  men  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, having  worn  green  wreaths  of  the  vine  in  some 
procession  or  other,  bathed  in  them,  by  scores.  It  looked 
very  odd  and  pretty.  Though  I  am  bound  to  confess  (not 
knowing  of  the  festa  at  that  time),  that  I  thought,  and 
was  quite  satisfied,  they  wore  them  as  horses  do — to  keep 
the  flies  off. 

Soon  afterwards,  there  was  another  festa-day,  in  hon- 
our of  a  St.  Nazaro.  One  of  the  Albaro  young  men 
brought  two  large  bouquets  soon  after  breakfast,  and 
coming  up-stairs  into  the  great  sala,  presented  them  him- 
self. This  was  a  polite  way  of  begging  for  a  contribution 
towards  the  expenses  of  some  music  in  the  Saint's  hon- 
our, so  we  gave  him  whatever  it  may  have  been,  and  his 
messenger  departed :  well  satisfied.  At  six  o'clock  in 
the  evening  we  went  to  the  church — close  at  hand — a 
very  gaudy  place,  hung  all  over  with  festoons  and  bright 
draperies,  and  filled,  from  the  altar  to  the  main  door, 
with  women,  all  seated.  They  wear  no  bonnets  here, 
simply  a  long  v/hite  veil — the  ''mezzero  and  it  was 
the  most  gauzy,  ethereal -looking  audience  I  ever  saw. 
The  young  women  are  not  generally  pretty,  but  they 
walk  remarkably  well,  and  in  their  personal  carriage  and 
the  management  of  their  veils,  display  much  innate 
grace  and  elegance.  There  were  some  men  present :  not 
very  many  :  and  a  few  of  these  were  kneeling  about  the 
aisles,  while  everybody  else  tumbled  over  them.  In- 
numerable tapers  were  burning  in  the  church ;  the  bits 
of  silver  and  tin  about  the  saints  (especially  in  the  Vir- 
gin's necklace)  sparkled  brilliantly  ;  the  priests  were 
seated  about  the  chief  altar  ;  the  organ  played  away, 
lustily,  and  a  full  band  did  the  like  ;  while  a  conductor, 
in  a  little  gallery  opposite  to  the  band,  hammered  away 
on  the  desk  before  him  with  a  scroll  ;  and  a  tenor,  with- 
out any  voice,  sang.  The  band  played  one  way,  the 
organ  played  another,  the  singer  went  a  third,  and  the 
unfortunate  conductor  banged  and  banged,  and  flourished 
his  scroll  on  some  principle  of  his  own  :  apparently  well 
satisfied  with  the  whole  performance.    I  never  did  hear 


166  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


such  a  discordant  din.     The  heat  was  intense  all  the 
time. 

The  men,  in  red  caps,  and  with  loose  coats  hanging  on 
their  shoulders  (they  never  put  them  on),  were  playing 
bowls,  and  buying  sweetmeats,  immediately  outside  the 
church.  When  half-a-dozen  of  them  finished  a  game, 
they  came  into  the  aisle,  crossed  themselves  with  the 
holy  water,  knelt  on  one  knee  for  an  instant,  and  walk- 
ed off  again  to  play  another  game  at  bowls.  They  are 
remarkably  expert  at  this  diversion,  and  will  play  in  the 
stony  lanes  and  streets,  and  on  the  most  uneven  and  dis- 
astrous ground  for  such  a  purpose,  with  as  much  nicety 
as  on  a  billiard-table.  But  the  most  favourite  game  is 
the  national  one  of  Mora,  which  they  pursue  with  sur, 
prising  ardour,  and  at  which  they  will  stake  everything 
they  possess.  It  is  a  destructive  kind  of  gambling,  re- 
quiring no  accessaries  but  the  ten  fingers,  which  are  al- 
ways— I  intend  no  pun — at  hand.  Two  men  play  to 
gether.  One  calls  a  number — say  the  extreme  one,  ten. 
He  marks  what  i^prtion  of  it  he  pleases  by  throwing  out 
three,  or  four,  or  five  fingers  ;  and  his  adversary  has,  in 
the  same  instant,  at  hazard,  and  without  seeing  his 
hand,  to  throw  out  as  many  fingers  as  will  make  the 
exact  balance.  Their  eyes  and  hands  become  so  used  t(5 
this,  and  act  with  such  astonishing  rapidity,  that  an  un. 
initiated  bystander  would  find  it  very  difficult,  if  not  im. 
possible,  to  follow  the  progress  of  the  game.  The  — 
initiated,  however,  of  whom  there  is  always  an  eacrer 
group  looking  on,  devour  it  with  the  most  intense 
avidity ;  and  as  they  are  always  ready  to  champion  one 
side  or  the  other  in  case  of  a  dispute,  and  are  frequently 
divided  in  their  partisanship,  it  is  often  a  very  noisy 
proceeding.  It  is  never  the  quietest  game  in  the  world  ; 
for  the  numbers  are  always  called  in  a  loud  sharp  voice, 
and  follow  as  close  upon  each  other  as  they  can  be 
counted.  On  a  holiday  evening,  standing  at  a  window, 
or  walking  in  a  garden,  or  passing  through  the  streets, 
or  sauntering  in  any  quiet  place  about  the  town,  you 
will  hear  this  game  in  progress  in  a  score  of  wine-shops 
at  once  ;  and  looking  over  any  vine-yard  walk,  or  turn- 
ing almost  any  corner,  will  come  upon  a  knot  of  players 
in  full  cry.  It  is  observable  that  most  men  have  a 
propensity  to  throw  out  some  particular  number  oftener 
than  another  ;  and  the  vigilance  with  which  two  sharp- 
eyed  players  will  mutually  endeavour  to  detect  this 
weakness,  and  adapt  their  game  to  it,  is  very  curious 
and  entertaining.  The  effect  is  greatly  heightened  by 
the  universal  suddenness  and  vehemence  of  gesture  ;  two 
men  playing  for  half  a  farthing  with  an  intensity  as  all- 
absorbing  as  if  the  stake  were  life. 

Hard  by  here  is  a  large  Palazzo,  formerly  belonging  to 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


167 


some  member  of  the  Briguole  family,  but  just  now  hired 
by  a  scliool  of  Jesuits  for  their  summer  quarters.  I 
walked  into  its  dismantled  precincts  the  other  evening 
about  sunset,  and  couldn't  help  pacing  up  and  down  for 
a  little  time,  drowsily  taking  in  the  aspect  of  the  place  : 
which  is  repeated  hereabouts  in  all  directions. 

I  loitered  to  and  fro,  under  a  colonnade,  forming  two 
sides  of  a  weedy,  grass-grown  court-yard,  whereof  the 
house  formed  a  third  side,  and  a  low  terrace- walk,  over- 
looking the  garden  and  the  neighbouring  hills,  the 
fourth.  I  don't  believe  there  was  an  uncracked  stone 
in  the  whole  pavement.  In  the  centre  was  a  melancholy 
statue,  so  piebald  in  its  decay,  that  it  looked  exactly  as 
if  it  had  been  covered  with  sticking-plaster,  and  after- 
wards powdered.  The  stables,  coach-houses,  offices,  were 
all  empty,  all  ruinous,  all  utterly  deserted. 

Doors  had  lost  their  hinges,  and  were  holding  on  by 
their  latches  ;  windows  were  broken,  painted  plaster  had 
peeled  off,  and  was  lying  about  in  clods  ;  fowls  and  cats 
bad  so  taken  possession  of  the  out- buildings,  that  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  of  the  fairy  tales,  and  eyeing 
them  with  suspicion,  as  transformed  retainers,  waiting 
to  be  changed  back  again.  One  old  Tom,  in  particular  : 
a  scraggy  brute,  with  a  hungry  green  eye  (a  poor  rela- 
tion, in  reality,  I  am  inclined  to  think)  :  came  prowling 
round  and  round  me,  as  if  he  half  believed,  for  the  mo- 
ment, that  I  might  be  the  hero  come  to  marry  the  lady, 
and  set  all  to-rights  ;  but  discovering  his  mistake,  he 
suddenly  gave  a  grim  snarl,  and  walked  away  with  such 
a  tremendous  tail,  that  he  couldn't  get  into  the  little 
hole  where  he  lived,  but  was  obliged  to  wait  outside, 
until  his  indignation  and  his  tail  had  gone  down  together. 

In  a  sort  of  summer-house,  or  whatever  it  maybe,  in  this 
colonnade,  some  Englishmen  had  been  living,' like  grubs 
in  a  nut ;  but  the  Jesuits  had  given  them  notice  to  go,  and 
they  had  gone,  and  that  was  shut  up  too.  The  house  : 
a  wandering,  echoing,  thundering  barrack  of  a  place, 
with  the  lower  windows  barred  up,  as  usual,  was  wide 
open  at  the  door :  and  I  have  no  doubt  I  might  have  gone 
in,  and  gone  to  bed,  and  gone  dead,  and  nobody  a  bit 
the  wiser.  Only  one  suite  of  rooms  on  an  upper  floor 
was  tenanted ;  and  from  one  of  these,  the  voice  of  a 
young-lady  vocalist,  practising  bravura  lustily,  came 
flaunting  out  upon  the  silent  evening. 

I  went  down  into  the  garden,  intended  to  be  prim  and 
quaint,  with  avenues,  and  terraces,  acd  c-range- trees, 
and  statues,  and  water  in  stone  basms  :  and  everything 
was  green,  gaunt,  weedy,  straggling,  under  grown,  or 
over  grown,  mildewy,  damp,  redolent  of.  /ill  mrt^  of  slab- 
by,  clammy,  creeping,  and  uncomfortJible  !ifo.  There 
was  nothing  bright  in  the  whole  scene  but  a  firefly— one 


168 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


solitary  firefly — sliowing  against  the  dark  biislies  like  tlie 
last  little  specie  of  the  departed  Glory  of  the  house  ;  and 
even  it  went  flitting  up  and  down  at  sudden  angles,  and 
leaving  a  place  with  a  jerk,  and  describing  an  irregular 
circle,  and  returning  to  the  same  place  with  a  twitch 
that  startled  one  :  as  if  it  were  looking  for  the  rest  of 
the  Glory,  and  wondering  (Heaven  knows  it  might  1) 
what  had  become  of  it. 

In  the  course  of  two  months,  the  flitting  shapes  and 
shadows  of  my  dismal  entering  reverie  gradually  resolved 
themselves  into  familiar  forms  and  substances ;  and 
I  already  began  to  think  that  when  the  time  should 
come,  a  year  hence,  for  closing  the  long  holiday  and 
turning  back  to  England,  I  might  part  from  Genoa  with 
anything  but  a  glad  heart. 

It  is  a  place  that  grows  upon  you*'  every  day. 
There  seems  to  be  always  something  to  find  out  in  it 
There  are  the  most  extraordinary  alleys  and  by-ways  to 
walk  about  in.  You  can  lose  your  way  (what  a  comfort 
that  is  when  you  are  idle  !)  twenty  times  a  day,  if  you 
like  ;  and  turn  up  again,  under  the  most  unexpected  and 
surprising  diflSculties.  It  abounds  in  the  strangest  con- 
trasts ;  things  that  are  picturesque,  ugly,  mean,  mag- 
nificent, delightful,  and  offensive,  break  upon  the  view 
at  every  turn. 

They  who  would  know  how^  beautiful  the  country  im- 
mediately  surrounding  Genoa  is  should  climb  (in  clear 
weather)  to  the  top  of  Monte  Faccio,  or,  at  least,  ride 
round  the  city  walls  :  a  feat  more  easily  performed.  No 
prospect  can  be  more  diversified  and  lovely  than  the 
changing  views  of  the  harbour,  and  the  valleys  of  the 
two  rivers,  the  Polcevera  and  the  Bizagno,  from  the 
heights  along  which  the  strongly  fortified  walls  are  car- 
ried, like  the  great  w^all  of  China  in  little.  In  not  the 
least  picturesque  part  of  this  ride,  there  is  a  fair  speci- 
men of  a  real  Genoese  tavern,  where  the  visitor  may 
derive  good  entertainment  from  real  Genoese  dishes, 
such  as  Tagliarini ;  Ravioli ;  German  sausages,  strong  of 
garlic,  sliced  and  eaten  with  fresh  green  figs  ;  cocks' 
combs  and  sheep-kidneys,  chopped  up  with  mutton-chops 
and  liver ;  small  pieces  of  some  unkncvn  part  of  a 
calf,  twisted  into  small  shreds,  fried,  and  served  up  in  a 
great  dish  like  w^hitebait  ;  and  other  curiosities  of  that 
kind.  They  often  get  wine  at  these  suburban  Trattorie 
from  France  and  Spain  and  Portugal,  which  is  brought 
over  by  small  captains  in  little  trading-vessels.  They 
buy  it  at  so  much  a  bottle,  without  asking  what  it  is,  or 
caring  to  remember  if  anybody  tells  them,  and  usually 
divide  it  into  two  heaps  ;  of  which  they  label  one  Cham- 
pagne, and  the  other  Madeira.  The  various  oppo^te 
flavours,  qualities,  countries,  ages,  and  vintages  that 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


169 


are  comprised  under  these  two  general  heads  is  quite  ex- 
traordinary. The  most  limited  range  is  probably  from 
cool  Gruei  up  to  old  Marsala,  and  down  again  to  apple 
Tea. 

The  great  majority  of  the  streets  are  as  narrow  as  any 
thoroughfare  can  well  be,  where  people  (even  Italian 
people)  are  supposed  to  live  and  walk  about ;  being  mere 
lanes,  with  here  and  there  a  kind  of  well,  or  breathing- 
place.  The  houses  are  immensely  high,  painted  in  all 
sorts  of  colours,  and  are  in  every  stage  and  state  of  dam- 
age, dirt,  and  lack  of  repair.  They  are  commonly  let  off 
in  floors,  or  flats,  like  the  houses  in  the  old  town  of  Ed- 
inburgh, or  many  houses  in  Paris.  There  are  few  street 
doors  ;  the  entrance  halls  are,  for  the  most  part,  looked 
upon  as  public  property  ;  and  any  moderately  enterpris- 
ing scaveng'er  might  make  a  fine  fortune  by  now  and 
then  clearing  them  out.  As  it  is  impossible  for  coaches 
to  penetrate  into  these  streets,  there  are  sedan  chairs, 
gilded  and  otherwise,  for  hire  in  divers  places.  A  great 
many  private  chairs  are  also  kept  among  the  nobility  and 
gentry  ;  and  at  night  these  are  trotted  to  and  fro  in  all 
directions,  preceded  by  bearers  of  great  lanthorns, 
made  of  linen  stretched  upon  a  frame.  The  sedans  and 
lanthorns,  are  legitimate  successors  of  the  long  strings 
of  patient  and  much-abused  mules,  that  go  jingling 
their  little  bells  through  those  confined  streets  all  day 
long.  They  follow  them,  as  regularly  as  the  stars  the 
sun. 

When  shall  I  forget  the  Streets  of  Palaces  :  the  Strada 
Nuova  and  the  Strada  Balbi !  or  how  the  former  looked 
one  summer  day,  when  I  first  saw  it  underneath  the 
brightest  and  most  intensely  blue  of  summer  skies  i 
which  its  narrow  perspective  of  immense  mansions,  re- 
duced to  a  tapering  and  most  precious  strip  of  bright- 
ness, looking  down  upon  the  heavy  shade  below  !  A 
brightness  not  too  common,  even  in  July  and  August, 
to  be  well  esteemed  :  for,  if  the  Truth  must  out,  there 
were  not  eight  blue  skies  in  as  many  midsummer  weeks, 
saving,  sometimes,  early  in  the  morning ;  when,  looking 
out  to  sea,  the  water  and  the  firmament  were  one  world 
of  deep  and  brilliant  blue.  At  other  times,  there  were 
clouds  and  haze  enough  to  make  an  Englishman  grumble 
in  his  own  climate. 

The  endless  details  of  these  rich  Palaces  :  the  walls 
of  some  of  them,  within  alive  with  masterpieces  by  Van- 
dyke I  The  great,  heavy,  stone  balconies,  one  above 
another,  and  tier  over  tier  :  with  here  and  there,  one 
larger  than  the  rest,  towering  high  up — a  huge  marble 
platform  ;  the  doorless  vestibules,  massively  barred 
lower  windows,  immense  public  staircases,  thick  mar- 
ble pillars,  strong  dungeon-like  arches,  and  dreary, 
dreaming,  echoing  vaulted  cliambers  :  among  which  the 


170 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


eye  wanders  again,  and  again,  and  again,  as  every  palace 
is  succeeded  by  another — the  terrace  gardens  between 
house  and  house,  with  green  arches  of  the  vine,  and 
groves  of  orange  trees,  and  blushing  oleander  in  full 
bloom,  twenty,  thirty,  forty  feet  above  the  street — the 
painted  halls,  mouldering,  and  blotting,  and  rotting  in 
the  damp  corners,  and  still  shining  out  in  beautiful 
colours  and  voluptuous  designs,  where  the  walls  are 
dry — the  faded  figures  on  the  outsides  of  the  houses, 
holding  wreaths,  and  crowns,  and  flying  upward  and 
downward,  and  standing  in  niches,  and  here  and  there 
looking  fainter  and  more  feeble  than  elsewhere,  by  con- 
trast with  some  fresh  little  Cupids,  who  on  a  more 
recently  decorated  portion  of  the  front,  are  stretching 
out  what  seems  to  be  the  semblance  of  a  blanket,  but  is, 
indeed,  a  sun-dial— the  steep,  steep,  up-hill  streets  of 
small  palaces  (but  very  large  palaces  for  all  that),  with 
marble  terraces  looking  down  into  close  by-ways — the 
magnificent  and  innumerable  Churches  ;  and  the  rapid 
passage  from  a  street  of  stately  edifices,  into  a  maze  of 
the  vilest  squalor,  steaming  with  unwholesome  stenches, 
and  swarming  with  half-naked  children  and  whole 
worlds  of  dirty  people — make  up,  altogether,  such  a 
scene  of  wonder :  so  lively,  and  yet  so  dead  :  so  noisy, 
and  yet  so  quiet  :  so  obtrusive,  and  yet  so  shy  and  low- 
ering :  so  wide  awake,  and  yet  so  fast  asleep  :  that  it 
is  a  sort  of  intoxication  to  a  stranger  to  walk  on,  and  on, 
and  on,  and  look  about  him.  A  bewildering  phantas- 
magoria, with  all  the  inconsistency  of  a  dream,  and  all  the 
pain  and  all  the  pleasure  of  an  extravagant  reality  I 

The  different  uses  to  which  some  of  these  Palaces  are 
applied,  all  at  once,  is  characteristic.  For  instance,  the 
English  Banker  (my  excellent  and  hospitable  friend)  has 
his  office  in  a  good-sized  Palazzo  in  the  Strada  Nuova. 
In  the  hall  (every  inch  of  which  is  elaborately  painted, 
but  which  is  as  dirty  as  a  police-station  in  London),  a 
hook-nosed  Saracen's  Head  with  an  immense  quantity  of 
black  hair  (there  is  a  man  attached  to  it)  sells  walking- 
sticks.  On  the  other  side  of  the  doorway,  a  lady  with  a 
showy  handkerchief  for  head-dress  (wife  to  the  Saracen's 
Head,  I  believe)  sells  articles  of  her  own  knitting  ;  and 
sometimes  flowers.  A  little  further  in,  two  or  three 
blind  men  occasionally  beg.  Sometimes,  they  are  visited 
by  a  man  without  legs,  on  a  little  go-cart,  but  who  has 
such  a  fresh-coloured,  lively  face,  and  such  a  respect- 
able, well-conditioned  body,  that  he  looks  as  if  he  had 
sunk  into  the  ground  up  to  his  middle,  or  had  come,  but 
partially,  up  a  flight  of  cellar-steps  to  speak  to  some- 
body. A  little  further  in,  a  few  men,  perhaps,  lie  asleep 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  ;  or  they  may  be  chairmen 
waiting  for  their  absent  freight  If  so,  they  have  brou^lit 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


171 


fcheir  chairs  in  with  them,  and  there  tfiey  stand  also.  On 
the  left  of  the  hall  is  a  little  room  :  a  hatter's  shop.  On 
the  first  floor,  is  the  English  bank.  On  the  first  floor 
also,  is  a  whole  house,  and  a  good  large  residence  too. 
Heaven  knows  what  there  may  be  above  that  ;  but  when 
you  are  there,  you  have  only  just  begun  to  go  up-stairs. 
And  yet,  coming  down-stairs  again,  thinking  of  this  ;  and 
passing  out  at  a  great  crazy  door  in  the  back  of  the  hall, 
instead  of  turning  the  other  way,  to  get  into  the  street 
again  ;  it  bangs  behind  you,  making  the  dismalest  and 
most  lonesome  echoes,  and  you  stand  in  a  yard  (the  yard 
of  the  same  house)  which  seems  to  have  been  un visited 
by  human  foot,  for  a  hundred  years.  Not  a  sound  dis- 
turbs its  repose.  Not  a  head,  thrust  out  of  any  of  the 
grim,  dark,  jealous  windows  within  sight,  makes  the 
weeds  in  the  cracked  pavement  faint  of  heart,  by 
suggesting  the  possibility  of  there  being  hands  to  grub 
them  up.  Opposite  to  you,  is  a  giant  figure  carved  in 
stone,  reclining,  with  an  urn,  upon  a  lofty  piece  oi 
artificial  rock  work  ;  and  out  of  the  urn,  dangles  the  fag 
end  of  a  leaden  pipe,  which,  once  upon  a  time,  poured 
a  small  torrent  down  the  rocks.  But  the  eye-sockets  of 
the  giant  are  not  drier  than  this  channel  is  now.  He 
seems  to  have  given  his  arn,  which  is  nearly  upside 
down,  a  final  tilt ;  and  after  crying,  like  a  sepulchral 
child,  **  All  gone  I "  to  nave  lapsed  into  a  stony  silence. 

In  the  streets  of  shops,  the  houses  are  much  smaller, 
but  of  great  size  notwithstanding,  and  extremely  high. 
They  are  very  dirty  :  quite  undrained,  if  my  nose  be  at 
all  reliable :  and  emit  a  peculiar  fragrance,  like  the 
smell  of  very  bad  cheese,  kept  in  very  hot  blankets. 
Notwithstanding  the  height  of  the  houses,  there  would 
seem  to  have  been  a  lack  of  room  in  the  City,  for  new 
houses  are  thrust  in  everywhere.  Wherever  it  has  been 
possible  to  cram  a  tumble-down  tenement  into  a  crack 
or  corner,  in  it  has  gone.  If  there  be  a  nook  or  angle  in 
the  wall  of  a  church,  or  a  crevice  in  any  other  dead  wall, 
of  any  sort,  there  you  are  sure  to  find  some  kind  of  habi- 
tation ;  looking  as  if  it  had  grown  there,  like  a  fungus. 
Against  the  Government  house,  against  the  old  Senate 
house,  round  about  any  large  building,  little  shops  stick 
close,  like  parasite  vermin  to  the  great  carcase.  And  for 
all  this,  look  where  you  may  :  up  steps,  down  steps,  any- 
where :  there  are  irregular  houses,  receding,  starting 
forward,  tumblmg  down,  leaning  against  their  neigh- 
bours, crippling  themselves  or  their  friends  by  some 
means  or  other,  until  one,  more  irregular  than  the  rest, 
chokes  up  the  way,  and  you  can't  see  any  further. 

One  of  the  rotten est-looking  parts  of  the  town,  1  think, 
is  down  by  the  landing- wharf  :  though  it  may  be,  that 
its  being  associated  with  a  great  deal  of  rottenness  on  the 


172 


WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


evening  of  our  arrival,  lias  stamped  it  deeper  in  my 
mind.  Here,  again,  the  houses  are  very  high,  and  are 
of  an  infinite  variety  of  deformed  shapes,  and  have  (as 
most  of  the  houses  have)  something  hanging  out  of  a 
great  many  windows,  and  wafting  its  frowsy  fragrance 
on  the  breeze.  Sometimes,  it  is  a  curtain  ;  sometimes, 
it  is  a  carpet ;  sometimes,  it  is*  a  bed  ;  sometimes,  a 
whole  line-full  of  clothes  ;  but  there  is  almost  always 
something.  Before  the  basements  of  these  houses,  is  an 
arcade  over  the  pavement ;  very  massive,  dark,  and  low, 
like  an  old  crypt.  The  stone,  or  plaster,  of  which  it  is 
made,  has  turned  quite  black  ;  and  against  every  one  of 
these  black  piles,  all  sorts  of  filth  and  garbage  seem  to 
accumulate  spontaneously.  Beneath  some  of  the  arches, 
the  sellers  of  maccaroni  and  polenta  establish  their  stalls, 
which  are  by  no  means  inviting.  The  offal  of  a  fish- 
market,  near  at  hand — that  is  to  say,  of  a  back  lane, 
where  people  sit  upon  the  ground  and  on  various  old 
bulk-heads  and  sheds,  and  sell  fish  when  they  have  any 
to  dispose  of — and  of  a  vegetable  market,  constructed  on 
the  same  principle — are  contributed  to  the  decoration  of 
this  quarter ;  and  as  all  the  mercantile  business  is 
transacted  here,  and  it  is  crowded  all  day,  it  has  a  very 
decided  flavour  about  it.  The  Porto  Franco,  or  Free 
Port  (where  goods  brought  in  from  foreign  countries  pay 
no  duty  until  they  are  sold  and  taken  out,  as  in  a  bonded 
warehouse  in  England),  is  down  here  also  ;  and  two  por- 
tentous oflScials,  in  cocked  hats,  stand  at  the  gate  to 
search  you  if  they  choose,  and  to  keep  out  Monks  and 
Ladies.  For,  Sanctity  as  well  as  Beauty  has  been  known 
to  yield  to  the  temptation  of  smuggling,  and  in  the  same 
way  :  that  is  to  say,  by  concealing  the  smuggled  property 
beneath  the  loose  folds  of  its  dress.  So  Sanctity  and 
Beauty  may,  by  no  means,  enter. 

The  Streets  of  Genoa  would  be  all  the  better  for  the 
importation  of  a  few  Priests  of  prepossessing  appearance. 
Every  fourth  or  fifth  man  in  the  streets  is  a  Priest  or  & 
Monk  ;  and  there  is  pretty  sure  to  be  at  least  one  itiner- 
ant ecclesiastic  inside  or  outside  every  hackney  carriage 
on  the  neighbouring  roads.  I  have  no  knowledge,  else- 
where, of  more  repulsive  countenances  than  are  to  be 
found  among  these  gentry.  If  Nature's  handwriting  be 
at  all  legible,  greater  varieties  of  sloth,  deceit,  and  in- 
tellectual torpor,  could  hardly  be  observed  among  any 
class  of  men  in  the  world. 

Mr.  Pepys  once  heard  a  clergyman  assert  in  his  ser- 
mon, in  illustration  of  his  respect  for  the  Priestly  oflSce, 
that  if  he  could  meet  a  Priest  and  angel  together,  he 
would  salute  the  Priest  first.  I  am  rather  of  the  opinion 
of  Petrarch  who,  when  his  pupil  Boccaccio  wrote  tc 
him  in  great  tribulation,  that  he  had  been  visited  and 
admonished  for  his  writings  by  a  Carthusian  Friar  who 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


173 


claimed  to  be  a  messenger  immediately  commissioned  by 
Heaven  for  that  purpose,  replied,  that  for  his  own  part, 
he  would  take  the  liberty  of  testing  the  reality  of  the 
commission  by  personal  observation  of  the  Messenger's 
face,  eyes,  forehead,  behaviour,  and  discourse.  I  cannot 
but  believe  myself,  from  similar  observation,  that  many 
unaccredited  celestial  mesc'engers  may  be  seen  skulking 
through  the  streets  of  Genoa,  or  droning  away  their  lives 
in  other  Italian  towns. 

Perhaps  the  Cappuccini,  though  not  a  learned  body, 
are,  as  an  order,  the  best  friends  of  the  people.  They 
seem  to  mingle  with  them  more  immediately,  as  their 
counsellors  and  comforters  ;  and  to  go  among  them  more, 
when  they  are  sick  ;  and  to  pry  less  than  some  other 
orders,  into  the  secrets  of  families,  for  the  purpose  of 
establishing  a  baleful  ascendancy  over  their  weaker  mem- 
bers ;  and  to  be  influenced  by  a  less  fierce  desire  to  make 
converts,  and  once  made,  to  let  them  go  to  ruin,  soul  and 
body.  They  may  be  seen,  in  their  coarse  dress,  in  all 
parts  of  the  town  at  all  times,  and  begging  in  the  mar- 
kets early  in  the  morning.  The  Jesuits  too,  muster  strong 
in  the  streets,  and  go  slinking  noiselessly  about  in  pairs, 
like  black  cats.  . 

In  some  of  the  narrow  passages,  distinct  trades  con- 
gregate. There  is  a  street  of  jewellers,  and  there  is  a  row 
of  booksellers ;  but  even  down  in  places  where  nobody 
ever  can,  or  ever  could,  penetrate  in  a  carriage,  there 
are  mighty  old  palaces  shut  in  among  the  gloomiest  and 
closest  walls,  and  almost  shut  out  from  the  sun.  Very 
few  of  the  tradesmen  have  any  idea  of  setting  forth  their 
goods,  or  disposing  them  for  show.  If  you,  a  stranger, 
want  to  buy  anything,  you  usually  look  round  the  shop 
till  you  see  it ;  then  clutch  it,  if  it  be  within  reach  ;  and 
inquire  how  much.  Everything  is  sold  at  the  most  un- 
likely place.  If  you  want  coffee,  you  go  to  a  sweetmeat- 
shop  ;  and  if  you  want  meat,  you  will  probably  find  it 
behind  an  old  checked  curtain,  down  half  a  dozen  steps, 
in  some  sequestered  nook  as  hard  to  find  as  if  the  com- 
modity were  poison,  and  Genoa's  law  were  death  to  any 
that  uttered  it. 

Most  of  the  apothecaries'  shops  are  great  lounging 
places.  Here,  grave  men  with  sticks,  sit  down  in  the 
shade  for  hours  together,  passing  a  meagre  Genoa  paper 
from  hand  to  hand,  and  talking,  drowsily  and  sparingly, 
about  the  News.  Two  or  three  of  these  are  poor  physi- 
cians, ready  to  proclaim  themselves  on  an  emergency, 
and  tear  off  with  any  messenger  who  may  arrive.  You 
may  know  them  by  the  way  in  which  they  stretch  their 
necks  to  listen,  when  you  ejnter  ;  and  by  the  sigh  with 
which  they  fall  back  again  into  their  dull  corners,  on 
finding  that  you  only  wau\  medicine.    Few  people  lounge 


174  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  the  barbers'  sbops  ;  tliougb  they  are  very  numerous, 
as  hardly  any  man  shaves  himself.  But  the  apothecary's 
has  its  group  of  loungers,  who  sit  back  among  the 
bottles,  with  their  hands  folded  over  the  tops  of  their 
sticks.  So  still  and  quiet,  that  either  you  don't  see  them 
in  the  darkened  shop,  or  mistake  them — as  I  did  one 
ghostly  man  in  bottle-green,  one  day,  with  a  hat  like  a 
stopper— for  Horse  Medicine. 

On  a  summer  evening  the  Genoese  are  as  fond  of  put- 
ting themselves,  as  their  ancestors  were  of  putting 
houses,  in  every  available  inch  of  space  within  and  about 
the  town.  In  all  tlie  lanes  and  alleys,  and  up  every  little 
ascent,  and  on  every  dwarf  wall,  and  on  every  flight  of 
steps,  they  cluster  like  bees.  Meanwhile  (and  especially 
on  Festa-days)  the  bells  of  the  churches  ring  incessantly  ; 
not  in  peals,  or  any  known  form  of  sound,  but  in  a  hor- 
rible, irregular,  jerking  dingle,  dingle,  dingle  :  with  a 
sudden  stop  at  every  fifteenth  dingle  or  so,  which  is 
maddening.  This  performance  is  usually  achieved  by  a 
boy  up  in  the  steeple,  who  takes  hold  of  the  clapper,  or 
a  little  rope  attached  to  it,  and  tries  to  dingle  louder 
than  every  other  boy  similarly  employed.  The  noise  is 
supposed  to  be  particularly  obnoxious  to  Evil  Spirits  ; 
but  looking  up  into  the  steeples,  and  seeing  (and  hearing) 
these  young  Christians  thus  engaged,  one  might  very 
naturally  mistake  them  for  the  Enemy. 

Festa-days,  early  in  the  autumn,  are  very  numerous. 
All  the  shops  were  shut  up,  twice  within  a  week,  for 
these  holidays  ;  and  one  night,  all  the  houses  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  particular  church  were  illuminated, 
while  the  church  itself  was  lighted,  outside,  with 
torches  ;  and  a  grove  of  blazing  links  was  erected  in  an 
open  place  outside  one  of  the  city  gates.  This  part 
of  the  ceremony  is  prettier  and  more  singular  a  little 
way  in  the  country,  where  you  can  trace  the  illumin- 
ated cottages  all  the  way  up  a  steep  hill  side  ;  and 
where  you  pass  festoons  of  tapers,  wasting  away  in  the 
starlight  night,  before  some  lonely  little  house  upon  the 
road. 

On  these  days,  they  always  dress  the  church  of  the  saint 
in  whose  honour  the  Festa  is  holden,  very  gaily.  Gold- 
embroidered  festoons  of  different  colours,  hang  from  the 
arches ;  the  altar  furniture  is  set  forth  ;  and,  sometimes, 
even  the  lofty  pillars  are  swathed  from  top  to  bottom  in 
tight-fitting  draperies.  The  cathedral  is  dedicated  to  St. 
Lorenzo.  On  St.  Lorenzo's  day,  we  went  into  it,  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting.  Although  these  decorations  are  usually 
in  very  indiiferent  taste,  the  effect,  just  then,  was  very 
superb,  indeed.  For  the  whole  building  was  dressed  in 
red  ;  and  the  sinking  sun,  streaming  in,  through  a  great 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


176 


red  curtain  in  the  chief  doorway,  made  all  the  gorgeous- 
ness  its  own.  When  the  sun  went  down,  and  it  gradually 
grew  quite  dark  inside,  except  for  a  few  twinkling 
tapers  on  the  principal  altar,  and  some  small  dangling 
silver  lamps,  it  was  very  mysterious  and  effective.  But, 
sitting  in  any  of  the  churches  towards  evening,  is  like  a 
mild  dose  of  opium. 

With  the  money  collected  at  a  Festa,  they  usually  pay 
for  the  dressing  of  the  church,  and  for  the  hiring  of  the 
band,  and  for  the  tapers.  If  there  be  any  left  (which 
seldom  happens,  I  believe)  the  souls  in  purgatory  get  the 
benefit  of  it.  They  are  also  supposed  to  have  the  bene- 
fit of  the  exertions  of  certain  small  boys,  who  shake 
money-boxes  before  some  mysterious  little  buildings  like 
rural  turnpikes,  which  (usually  shut  up  close)  fly  open 
on  Red-letter  days,  and  disclose  an  image  and  some 
flowers  inside. 

Just  without  the  city  gate,  on  the  Albara  road,  is  a 
small  house,  with  an  altar  in  it,  and  a  stationary  money- 
box :  also  for  the  benefit  of  the  souls  in  Purgatory. 
Still  further  to  stimulate  the  charitable,  there  is  a  mon 
strous  painting  on  the  plaster,  on  either  side  of  the 
grated  door,  representing  a  select  party  of  souls,  frying. 
One  of  them  has  a  grey  moustache,  and  an  elaborate 
head  of  grey-hair  :  as  if  he  had  been  taken.out  of  a  hair- 
dresser's window  and  cast  into  the  furnace.  There  he 
is  :  a  most  grotesque  and  hideously  comic  old  soul :  for 
ever  blistering  in  the  real  sun,  and  melting  in  the  mimic 
fire,  for  the  gratification  and  improvement  (and  the  con- 
tributions) of  the  poorer  Genoese. 

They  are  not  a  very  joyous  people,  and  are  seldom 
seen  to  dance  on  their  holidays  :  the  staple  places  of  en- 
tertainment among  the  women,  being  the  churches  and 
the  public  walks.  They  are  very  good-tempered,  oblig- 
ing, and  industrious.  Industry  has  not  made  them  clean, 
for  their  habitations  are  extremely  filthy,  and  their  usual 
occupation  on  a  fine  Sunday  morning*  is  to  sit  at  their 
doors,  hunting  in  each  other's  heads.  But  their  dwell- 
ings are  so  close  and  confined  that  if  those  parts  of  the 
city  had  been  beaten  down  by  Massena  in  the  time  of  the 
terrible  Blockade,  it  would  have  at  least  occasioned  one 
public  benefit  among  many  misfortunes. 

The  Peasant  Women,  with  naked  feet  and  legs,  are  so 
constantly  washing  clothes,  in  the  public  tanks,  and  in 
every  stream  and  ditch,  that  one  cannot  help  wondering. 
In  the  midst  of  all  this  dirt,  who  wears  them  when  they 
are  clean.  The  custom  is  to  lay  tho  wet  linen  which  is 
being  operated  upon,  on  a  smooth  stone,  and  hammer 
away  at  it,  with  a  flat  wooden  mallet.  This  they  do,  as 
furiously  as  if  they  were  revenging  themselves  on  dress 
iia  general  for  being  connected  with  the  Fall  of  Mankind. 


176 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


It  is  not  unusual  to  see,  lying  on  the  edge  of  the  tank 
at  these  times,  or  on  another  flat  stone,  an  unfortunate 
baby  tightly  swathed  up,  arms  and  legs  and  all,  in  an 
enormous  quantity  of  wrapper,  so  that  it  is  unable  to 
move  a  toe  or  finger.  This  custom  (which  we  often  see 
represented  in  old  pictures)  is  universal  among  the  com- 
mon people.  A  child  is  left  anywhere  without  the  pos* 
sibility  of  crawling  away,  or  is  accidentally  knocked  off  £ 
shelf,  or  tumbled  out  of  bed,  or  is  hung  up  to  a  hook  now 
and  then,  and  left  dangling  like  a  doll  at  an  English  rag 
shop,  without  the  least  inconvenience  to  anybody. 

I  \yas  sitting,  one  Sunday,  soon  after  my  arrival,  in  the 
little  country  church  of  San  Martino,  a  couple  of  miles 
from  the  city,  while  a  baptism  took  place.  I  saw  the 
priest,  and  an  attendant  with  a  large  taper,  and  a  man, 
and  a  woman,  and  some  others  ;  but  I  had  no  more  idea, 
until  the  ceremony  was  all  over,  that  it  was  a  baptism, 
or  that  the  curious  little  stiff  instrument,  that  was  passed 
from  one  to  another,  in  the  course  of  the  ceremony,  by 
the  handle — like  a  short  poker — was  a  child,  than  I  had 
that  it  was  my  own  christening.  I  borrowed  the  child 
afterwards,  for  a  minute  or  two  (it  was  lying  across  the 
font  then)  and  found  it  very  red  in  the  face  .but  per- 
fectly quiet,  and  not  to  be  bent  on  any  terms.  The  num- 
ber of  cripples  in  the  streets,  soon  ceased  to  surprise  me. 

There  are  plenty  of  Saints'  and  Virgin's  Shrines,  of 
course  ;  generally  at  the  corners  of  streets.  The  favour- 
ite memento  to  the  Faithful,  about  Genoa,  is  a  paint- 
ing, representing  a  peasant  on  his  knees,  with  a  spade 
and  some  other  agricultural  implements  beside  him  ;  and 
the  Madonna,  with  the  Infant  Saviour  in  her  arms,  ap- 
pearing to  him  in  a  cloud.  This  is  the  Legend  of  the 
Madonna  dell  a  Guardia:  a  chapel  on  a  mountain  within 
a  few  miles,  which  is  in  high  repute.  It  seems  that  this 
peasant  lived  all  alone  by  himself,  tilling  some  land  atop 
of  the  mountain,  vv^here,  being  a  devout  man,  he  daily 
said  his  prayers  to  the  Virgin  in  the  open  air;  for  his 
hut  was  a  very  poor  one.  Upon  a  certain  day,  the  Virgin 
appeared  to  him,  as  in  the  picture,  and  said,  Why  do 
you  pray  in  the  open  air,  and  without  a  priest  ?  "  The 
peasant  explained  because  there  was  neither  priest  nor 
church  at  hand — a  very  uncommon  complaint  indeed  in 
Italy.  I  should  wish,  then,"  said  the  Celestial  Visitor, 
''to  have  a  chapel  built  here,  in  which  the  prayers  of 
the  Faithful  may  be  offered  up."  But  Santissima 
Madonna,"  said  the  peasant,  "  I  am  a  poor  man  ;  and 
chapels  cannot  be  built  without  money.  They  must  be 
supported,  too,  Santissima  ;  for  to  have  a  chapel  and  not 
support  it  liberally,  is  a  wickedness — a  deadly  sin.'* 
This  sentiment  gave  great  satisfaction  to  the  visitor. 
**  Go  I  "  said  she.  *'  There  is  such  a  village  in  the  valley 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


177 


om  the  left,  and  such  another  village  in  the  valley  on  thd 
right,  and  such  another  village  elsewhere,  that  will 
gladly  contribute  to  the  building  of  a  chapel.  Go  to 
them  !  Relate  w^hat  you  have  seen  ;  and  do  not  doubt 
that  sufficient  money  will  be  forthcoming  to  erect  my 
chapel,  or  that  it  will,  afterwards,  be  handsomely  main- 
tained/' All  of  v/hicli  (miraculously)  turned  out  to  be 
quite  true.  And  in  proof  of  this  prediction  and  revela- 
tion, there  is  the  chapel  of  the  Madonna  del  la  Guardia, 
rich  and  flourishing  at  this  day. 

The  splendour  and  variety  of  the  Genoese  churches, 
can  hardly  be  exaggerated.  The  church  of  the  An- 
nunciata  especially  :  built,  like  many  of  the  others,  at 
the  cost  of  one  noble  family,  and  now  in  slow  progress 
of  repair  :  from  the  outer  door  to  the  utmost  height  of 
the  high  cupola,  is  so  elaborately  painted  and  set  in  gold, 
that  it  looks  (as  Simond  describes  it,  in  his  charming 
book  on  Italy)  like  a  great  enamelled  snuff-box.  Most  of 
the  richer  churches  contain  some  beautiful  pictures,  or 
other  embellishments  of  great  price,  almost  universally 
set,  side  by  side,  with  sprawling  effigies  of  maudlin 
monks,  and  the  veriest  trash  and  tinsel  ever  seen. 

It  may  be  a  consequence  of  the  frequent  direction  of 
the  popular  mind,  and  pocket,  to  the  souls  in  Purgatory, 
but  there  is  very  little  tenderness  for  the  hodies  of  the 
dead  here.  For  the  very  poor,  there  are,  immediately 
outside  one  angle  of  the  walls,  and  behind  a  jutting 
point  of  the  fortification,  near  the  sea,  certain  common 
pits — one  for  every  day  in  the  year — which  all  remain 
closed  up,  until  the  turn  of  each  comes  for  its  daily  re- 
ception of  dead  bodies.  Among  the  troops  in  the  town, 
there  are  usually  some  Swiss  :  more  or  less.  When  any 
of  these  die,  they  are  buried  out  of  a  fund  maintained 
by  such  of  their  countrymen  as  are  resident  in  Genoa. 
Their  providing  coffins  for  these  men,  is  matter  of  great 
astonishment  to  the  authorities. 

Certainly,  the  effect  of  this  promiscuous  and  indecent 
splashing  down  of  dead  people  into  so  many  wells,  is  bad. 
It  surrounds  Death  with  revolting  associations,  that  in- 
sensibly become  connected  with  those  whom  Death  is 
approaching.  Indifference  and  avoidance  are  the  natural 
result ;  and  all  the  softening  influences  of  the  great 
sorrow  are  harshly  disturbed. 

There  is  a  ceremony  when  an  old  Cavaliere  or  the  like, 
expires,  of  erecting  a  pile  of  benches  in  the  cathedral, 
to  represent  his  bier  ;  covering  them  over  with  a  pall  of 
black  velvet ;  putting  his  hat  and  sword  on  tlie  top  ; 
making  a  little  square  of  seats  about  the  whole  ;  and 
sending  out  formal  invitations  to  his  friends  and  acquaint- 
ance to  come  and  sit  there,  and  hear  Mass  :  which  iL 


178  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


performed  at  the  principal  Altar,  decorated  with  an  iir 
finity  of  candles  for  that  purpose. 

When  the  better  kind  of  people  die,  or  are  at  the  point 
of  death,  their  nearest  relations  generally  v»^alk  off  :  retir- 
ing into  the  country  for  a  little  change,  and  leaving  the 
body  to  be  disposed  of,  without  any  superintendence 
from  them.  The  procession  is  usually  formed,  and  the 
coffin  borne,  and  the  funeral  conducted  by  a  body  of 
persons  called  a  Confraternita,  who,  as  a  kind  of  volun- 
tary penance,  undertake  to  perform  these  offices,  in 
regular  rotation,  for  the  dead  ;  but  who,  mingling 
something  of  pride  with  their  humility,  are  dressed  in  a 
loose  garment  covering  their  whole  person,  and  wear  a 
hood  concealing  the  face  ;  with  breathing  holes  and 
apertures  for  the  eyes.  The  effect  of  this  costume  is 
very  ghastly  :  especially  in  the  case  of  a  certain  Blue 
Confraternita  belonging  to  Genoa,  who,  to  say  the  least 
of  them,  are  very  ugly  customers,  and  who  look — sud- 
denly encountered  in  their  pious  ministration  in  the 
streets — as  if  they  were  Ghoules  or  Demons,  bearing  off 
the  body  for  themselves. 

Although  such  a  custom  may  be  liable  to  the  abuse 
attendant  on  many  Italian  customs,  of  being  recognized 
as  a  means  of  establishing  a  current  account  with  Heaven, 
on  which  to  draw,  too  easily,  for  future  bad  actions,  or  as 
an  expiation  for  past  misdeeds,  it  must  be  admitted  to 
be  a  good  one,  and  a  practical  one,  and  one  involving 
unquestionably  good  works.  A  voluntary  service  like 
this,  is  surely  better  than  the  imposed  penance  (not  at 
all  an  infrequent  one)  of  giving  so  many  licks  to  such 
and  such  a  stone  in  the  pavement  of  the  cathedral ;  or 
than  a  vow  to  the  Madonna  to  wear  nothing  but  blue  for 
a  year  or  two.  This  is  supposed  to  give  great  delight 
above  ;  blue  being  (as  is  well  known)  the  Madonna's 
favourite  colour.  Women  who  have  dev^oted  themselves 
to  this  act  of  Faith,  are  very  commonly  seen  walking  in 
the  streets. 

There  are  three  theatres  in  the  city,  besides  an  old  one 
now  rarely  opened.  The  most  important — the  Carlo 
Felice  :  the  opera-house  of  Genoa — is  a  very  splendid, 
commodious,  and  beautiful  theatre.  A  company  of 
comedians  were  acting  there,  when  we  arrived  :  and 
after  their  departure,  a  second-rate  Opera  company  came. 
The  great  season  is  not  until  the  carnival  time — in  the 
spring.  Nothing  impressed  me,  so  much,  in  my  visits 
here  (which  were  pretty  numerous)  as  the  uncommonly 
hard  and  cruel  character  of  the  audience,  who  resent  the 
slightest  defect,  take  nothing  good-humourediy,  seem  to 
be  always  lying  in  wait  for  an  opportunity  to  hiss,  and 
spare  the  actresses  as  little  as  the  actors.    But,  as  there 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


179 


Is  nothing  else  of  a  public  nature  at  which  they  are 
allowed  to  express  the  least  disapprobation,  perhaps  they 
are  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  this  opportunity. 

There  are  a  great  number  of  Piedmontese  Officers  too, 
who  are  allowed  the  privilege  of  kicking  their  heels  in 
the  pit,  for  next  to  nothing  :  gratuitous,  or  cheap  ac- 
commodation for  these  gentlemen  being  insisted  on,  by 
the  Governor,  in  all  public  or  semi -public  entertainments. 
They  are  lofty  critics  in  consequence,  and  infinitely  more 
exacting  than  if  they  made  the  unhappy  manager's  for- 
tune. 

The  Teatro  DiURro,  or  Day  Theatre,  is  a  covered 
stage  in  the  open  air,  wnere  the  performances  take  place 
by  daylight,  in  the*  cool  of  the  afternoon  ;  commencing 
at  four  or  five  o'clock,  and  lasting  some  three  hours.  It 
is  curious,  sitting  among  the  audience,  to  have  a  fine 
view  of  the  neighbouring  hills  and  houses,  and  to  see  the 
neighbours  at  their  windows  looking  on,  and  to  hear  the 
bells  of  the  churches  and  convents  ringing  at  most  com> 
plete  eross-purposes  with  the  scene.  Beyond  this,  and 
the  novelty  of  seeing  a  play  in  the  fresh  pleasant  air, 
with  the  darkening  evening  closing  in,  there  is  nothing 
very  exciting  or  characteristic  in  the  performances. 
The  actors  are  indifferent  ;  and  though  they  sometimes 
represent  one  of  Golioni's  comedies,  the  staple  of  the 
Drama  is  French.  Anything  like  nationality  is  danger 
ous  to  despotic  governments,  and  Jesuit- beleaguered 
kings. 

The  Theatre  of  Puppets,  or  Marionetti — a  famous 
company  from  Milan — is,  without  any  exception,  the 
drollest  exhibition  1  ever  beheld  in  my  life.  I  never  saw 
anything  so  exquisitely  ridiculous.  They  look  between 
four  and  five  feet  high,  but  are  really  much  smaller  ;  for 
when  a  musician  in  the  orchestra  happens  to  put  his  hat 
on  the  stage,  it  becomes  alarmingly  gigantic,  and  almost 
blots  out  an  actor.  They  usually  play  a  comedy,  and  a 
ballet.  The  comic  man  in  the  comedy  I  saw  one  summer 
night,  is  a  waiter  at  an  hotel.  There  never  was  such  a 
locomotive  actor,  since  the  world  began.  Great  pains 
are  taken  with  him.  He  has  extra  joints  in  his  legs  * 
and  a  practical  eye,  with  which  he  winks  at  the  pit,  in  a 
manner  that  is  absolutely  insupportable  to  a  stranger, 
but  which  the  initiated  audience,  mainly  composed  of 
the  common  people,  receive  (so  they  do  everything  else) 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  as  if  he  were  a  man.  His 
spirits  are  prodigious.  He  continually  shakes  his  legs, 
and  winks  Lis  eye.  And  there  is  a_  heavy  father  with 
grey  hair,  who  sits  down  on  the  regular  conventional 
stage-bank,  and  blesses  his  daughter  in  the  regular 
conventional  way,  who  is  tremendous.  No  one  would 
suppose  it  possible  that  anything  short  of  a  real  man 
could  be  so  tedious.    It  is  the  triumph  of  art. 


180 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


In  the  ballet,  an  Enclianter  runs  away  with  the  Bride, 
in  the  very  hour  of  her  nuptials.  He  brings  her  to  his 
cave,  and  tries  to  soothe  her.  They  sit  down  on  a  sofa 
(the  regular  sofa  !  in  the  regular  place,  O.P.  Second 
Entrance  !)  and  a  procession  of  musicians  enter  ;  one 
creature  playing  a  drum,  and  knocking  himself  off  his 
legs  at  every  blow.  These  failing  to  delight  her,  dancers 
appear.  Four  first ;  then  two ;  the  two ;  the  flesh- 
coloured  two.  The  way  in  which  they  dance  ;  the  height 
to  which  they  spring ;  the  impossible  and  inhuman  ex- 
tent to  which  they  pirouette  ;  the  revelation  of  their 
preposterous  legs  ;  the  coming  down  with  a  pause,  on  the 
very  tips  of  their  toes,  when  the  music  requires  it ;  the 
gentleman's  retiring  up,  when  it  is  the  lady's  turn  ;  and 
the  lady's  retiring  up  when  it  is  the  gentleman's  turn  ; 
the  final  passion  of  a  pas-de-deux  ;  and  the  going  off 
with  a  bound  ! — I  shall  never  see  a  real  ballet,  with  a 
composed  countenance  again. 

I  went,  another  night,  to  see  these  Puppets  act  a  play 
called  **St.  Helena,  or  the  Death  of  Napoleon."  It 
began  by  the  disclosure  of  Napoleon,  with  an  immense 
head,  seated  on  a  sofa  in  his  chamber  at  St.  Helena  ;  to 
whom  his  valet  entered,  with  this  obscure  announcement : 
Sir  Yew  ud  se  on  Low  !  "  (the  ow,  as  in  cow). 

Sir  Hudson  (that  you  could  have  seen  his  regimentals  I) 
was  a  perfect  mammoth  of  a  man,  to  Napoleon  ;  hideously 
ugly  ;  with  a  monstrously  disproportionate  face,  and  a 
great  clump  for  the  lower-jaw,  to  express  his  tyrannical 
and  obdurate  nature.  He  began  his  system  of  persecu- 
tion, by  calling  his  prisoner  General  Buonaparte  ;"  to 
which  the  latter  replied,  with  the  deepest  tragedy,  "  Sir 
Yew  ud  se  on  Low,  call  me  not  thus.  Repeat  that  phrase 
and  leave  me  !  I  am  Napoleon,  Emperor  of  France  !  "  Sir 
Yew  ud  se  on,  nothing  daunted,  proceeded  to  entertain 
him  with  an  ordinance  of  the  British  Government,  regu- 
lating the  state  he  should  preserve,  and  the  furniture  of 
his  rooms  :  and  limiting  his  attendants  to  four  or  five 
persons.  **Four  or  five  for  'me!'*  said  Napoleon. 
'*  Me  I  One  hundred  thousand  men  were  lately  my  sole 
command  ;  and  this  English  officer  talks  of  four  or  five 
for  me  !  "  Throughout  the  piece.  Napoleon  (who  talked 
very  like  the  real  Napoleon,  and  was,  for  ever,  having 
small  soliloquies  by  himself)  was  very  bitter  on  ''these 
English  officers,"  and  "  these  English  soldiers  to  the 
great  satisfaction  of  the  audience,  who  were  perfectly 
delighted  to  have  Low  bullied;  and  who,  whenever  Low 
said  General  Buonaparte"  (which  he  always  did: 
always  receiving  the  same  correction)  quite  execrated 
him.  It  would  be  hard  to.  say  why  ;  for  Italians  have 
little  cause  to  sympathize  with  Napoleon,  Heaven  knows. 

There  was  no  plot  at  all,  except  that  a  French  officer 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


181 


disguised  as  an  Englishman,  came  to  propound  a  plan  of 
escape  ;  and  being  discovered,  but  not  before  Napoleon 
had  magnanimously  refused  to  steal  his  freedom,  was 
immediately  ordered  off  by  Low  to  be  hanged.  In  two 
very  long  speeches,  which  Low  made  memorable,  by 
winding  up  with  Yas  ! " — to  show  that  he  was  English 
— which  brought  down  thunders  of  applause.  Napoleon 
was  so  affected  by  this  catastrophe,  that  he  fainted  away 
on  the  spot,  and  was  carried  out  by  two  other  puppets. 
Judging  from  what  followed,  it  would  appear  that  he 
never  recovered  the  shock  ;  for  the  next  act  showed  hini 
in  a  clean  shirt,  in  his  bed  (curtains  crimson  and  white), 
where  a  lady,  prematurely  dressed  in  mourning,  brought; 
two  little  children,  who  kneeled  down  by  the  bed-side, 
while  he  made  a  decent  end  ;  the  last  words  on  his  lips 
being  Vatterlo.'' 

It  was  unspeakably  ludicrous.  Buonaparte's  boots 
were  so  wonderfully  beyond  control,  and  did  such  mar- 
vellous things  of  their  own  accord  :  doubling  themselves 
up,  and  getting  under  tables,  and  dangling  in  the  air, 
and  sometimes  skating  away  with  him,  out  of  all  human 
knowledge,  when  he  was  in  full  speech — mischances 
which  were  not  rendered  the  less  absurd,  by  a  settled 
melancholy  depicted  in  his  face.  To  put  an  end  to  one 
conference  with  Low,  he  had  to  go  to  a  table,  and  read 
a  book  ;  when  it  was  the  finest  spectacle  I  ever  beheld, 
to  see  his  body  bending  over  the  volume,  like  a  boot- 
jack, and  his  sentimental  eyes  glaiing  obstinately  into 
the  pit.  He  was  prodigiously  good,  in  bed,  with  an  im- 
mense collar  to  his  shirt,  and  his  little  hands  outside  the 
coverlet.  So  was  Dr.  Antommarchi,  represented  by  a 
Puppet  with  long  lank  hair,  like  Mawworm's,  who,  in 
consequence  of  some  derangement  of  his  wires,  hovered 
about  the  couch  like  a  vulture,  and  gave  medical  opin- 
ions in  the  air.  He  was  almost  as  good  as  Low,  though 
the  latter  was  great  at  all  times — a  decided  brute  and 
villain,  beyond  all  possibility  of  mistake.  Low  was  es 
pecially  fine  at  the  last,  when,  hearing  the  doctor  and 
the  valet  say,  **  The  Emperor  is  dead  ! "  he  pulled  out 
his  watch,  and  wound  up  the  piece  (not  the  watch)  by 
exclaiming,  with  characteristic  brutality,  **Ha!  ha} 
Eleven  minutes  to  six  I  The  General  dead  !  and  the 
spy  hanged  \  "  This  brought  the  curtain  down  triumph- 
antly. 

There  is  not  in  Italy,  they  say  (and  I  believe  them)  a 
lovelier  residence  than  the  Palazzo  Peschiere,  or  Palace 
of  the  Fish-ponds,  whither  we  removed  as  soon  as  our 
three  months'  tenancy  of  the  Pink  Jail  at  Albaro  had 
ceased  and  determined. 

It  stands  on  a  height  within  the  walls  of  Genoa,  but 


182  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


aloof  from  the  town  :  surrounded  by  beautiful  gardens 
of  its  own,  adorned  with  statues,  vases,  fountains,  mar- 
ble basins,  terraces,  walks  of  orange-trees,  lemon- trees, 
and  groves  of  roses  and  camelias.  All  its  apartments 
are  beautiful  in  their  proportions  and  decorations  ;  but 
the  great  hall,  some  fifty  feet  in  height,  with  three 
large  windows  at  the  end,  overlooking  the  whole  town 
of  Genoa,  the  harbour,  and  the  neighbouring  sea,  affords 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  and  delightful  prospects  in 
the  world.  Any  house  more  cheerful  and  habitable  than 
the  great  rooms  are,  within,  it  would  be  diflacult  to  con- 
ceive :  and  certainly  nothing  more  delicious  than  the 
scene  without,  in  sunshine  or  in  moonlight,  could  be  im- 
agined. It  is  more  like  an  enchanted  palace  in  an  East- 
ern story  than  a  grave  and  sober  lodging. 

How  you  may  wander  on,  from  room  to  room,  and 
never  tire  of  the  wild  fancies  on  the  walls  and  ceilings, 
as  bright  in  their  fresh  colouring  as  if  they  had  been 
painted  yesterday  ;  or  how  one  floor,  or  even  the  great 
hall  which  opens  on  eight  other  rooms,  is  a  spacious 
promenade  ;  or  how  there  are  corridors  and  bed- 
chambers above,  which  we  never  use  and  rarely  visit, 
and  scarcely  know  the  way  through  ;  or  how  there  is  a 
view  of  a  perfectly  different  character  on  each  of  the 
four  sides  of  the  building  ;  matters  little.  But  that 
prospect  from  the  hall,  is  like  a  vision  fco  me.  I  go  back 
to  it,  in  fancy,  as  I  have  done  in  calm  reality  a  hundred 
times  a  day  ;  and  stand  there,  looking  out,  with  the 
sweet  scents  from  the  garden  rising  up  about  me,  in  a 
perfect  dream  of  happiness. 

There  lies  all  Genoa,  in  beautiful  confusion,  with  its 
inan/  churches,  monasteries,  and  convents,  pointing  up 
into  xhe  sunny  sky  ;  and  down  below  me,  just  where  the 
roofs  begin,  a  solitary  convent  parapet,  fashioned  like  a 
gallery,  with  an  iron  cross  at  the  end,  where  sometimes, 
early  in  the  morning,  I  have  seen  a  little  group  of  dark- 
veiled  nuns  gliding  sorrowfully  to  and  fro,  and  stopping 
now  and  then  to  peep  down  upon  the  waking  world  in 
which  they  have  no  part.  Old  Monte  Faccio,  brightest 
of  hills  in  good  weather,  but  sulkiest  when  storms  are 
coming  on,  is  here,  upon  the  left.  The  Fort  within  the 
walls  (the  good  king  built  it  to  command  the  town,  and 
beat  the  houses  of  the  Genoese  about  their  ears,  ^n  case 
they  should  be  discontented)  commands  that  height  up- 
on the  right.  The  broad  sea  lies  beyond,  in  front  there  ; 
and  that  line  of  coast,  beginning  by  the  light-house,  and 
tapering  away,  a  mere  speck  in  the  rosy  distance,  is  the 
beautiful  coast  road  thav  leads  to  Nice.  The  garden 
near  at  hand,  among  the  roofs  and  houses  :  all  red  with 
roses  and  fresh  with  little  fountains  :  is  the  Acqua  Sola 
•^-a  public  promenade,  where  the  military  band  plays 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


183 


gaily,  and  the  white  veils  cluster  thick,  and  the  Genoese 
nobility  ride  round,  and  round,  and  round,  in  state- 
clothes  and  coaches  at  least,  if  not  in  absolute  wisdom. 
Within  a  stone's-throw,  as  it  seems,  the  audience  of  the 
Day-Theatre  sit  :  their  faces  turned  this  way.  But  as 
the  stage  is  hidden,  it  is  very  odd,  without  a  knowledge 
of  the  cause,  to  see  their  faces  change  so  suddenly  from 
earnestness  to  laughter ;  and  odder  still,  to  hear  the 
rounds  upon  rounds  of  applause,  rattling  in  the  evening 
air,  to  which  the  curtain  falls.  But,  being  Sunday 
night,  they  act  their  best  and  most  attractive  play.  And 
n./W,  the  sun  is  going  down,  in  such  magnificent  array  of 
red,  and  green,  and  golden  light,  as  neither  pen  nor 
pencil  could  depict ;  and  to  the  ringing  of  the  vesper 
bells,  darkness  sets  in  at  once,  without  a  twilight. 
Then,  lights  begin  to  shine  in  Genoa,  and  on  the  country 
road;  and  the  revolving  Ian  thorn  out  at  sea  there,  flash- 
ing, for  an  Instant,  on  this  palace  front  and  portico,  il- 
luminates it  as  if  there  were  a  bright  moon  bursting 
from  behind  a  cloud  ;  then,  merges  it  in  deep  obscurity. 
And  this,  so  far  as  I  know,  is  the  only  reason  why  the 
Genoese  avcid  it  after  dark,  and  think  it  haunted. 

My  memory  will  haunt  it,  many  nights,  in  time  to 
come  ;  but  nothing  worse,  I  will  engage.  The  same 
Ghost  will  occasionally  sail  away,  as  I  did  one  pleasant 
Autumn  evening,  into  the  bright  prospect,  and  snuff  the 
morning  air  at  Marseilles. 

The  corpulent  hair  dresser  was  still  sitting  in  his  slip- 
pers outside  his  shop-door  there,  but  the  twirling  ladies 
in  the  window,  with  the  natural  inconstancy  of  their  sex, 
had  ceased  to  twirl,  and  were  languishing,  stock  still, 
with  their  beautiful  faces  addressed  to  blind  corners  of 
of  the  establishment,  where  it  was  impossible  for  admir- 
ers to  penetrate. 

The  steamer  had  come  from  Genoa  in  a  delicious  run 
of  eighteen  hours,  and  we  were  going  to  run  back  again 
by  the  Cornice  Road  from  Nice  :  not  being  satisfied  to 
have  seen  only  the  outsides  of  the  beautiful  towns  that 
rise  in  picturesque  white  clusters  from  among  the  olive 
woods,  and  rocks,  and  hills,  upon  the  margin  of  the  Sea. 

The  Boat  which  started  for  Nice  that  night,  at  eight 
o'clock,  was  very  small,  and  so  crowded  with  goods 
that  there  was  scarcely  room  to  move  ;  neither  was  there 
anything  to  eat  on  board,  except  bread  ;  nor  to  drink, 
except  coffee.  But  being  due  at  Nice  at  about  eight  or 
so  in  the  morning,  this  was  of  no  consequence  :  so  when 
we  began  to  wink  at  the  bright  stars,  in  involuntary  ac- 
knowledgment of  their  winking  at  us,  we  turned  into 
our  berths,  in  a  crowded,  but  cool  little  cabin,  and  slept 
soundly  till  morning. 

The  Boat,  being  as  dull  and  dogged  a  little  boat  as 


184 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ever  was  built,  it  was  within  an  hour  of  noon  when  we 
turned  into  Nice  Haibour,  where  we  very  little  expected 
anything  but  breakfast.  But  we  were  laden  with  wool. 
Wool  must  not  remain  in  the  Custom  House  at  Marseilles 
more  than  twelve  months  at  a  stretch,  without  pay- 
ing duty.  It  is  the  custom  to  make  fictitious  removals 
of  unsold  wool  to  evade  this  law  ;  to  take  it  somewhere 
when  the  twelve  months  are  nearly  out  ;  bring  it  straight 
back  again  ;  and  warehouse  it,  as  a  new  cargo,  for  nearly 
twelve  months  longer.  This  wool  of  ours,  had  come  ori- 
ginally from  some  place  in  the  East.  It  was  recognised 
as  Eastern  produce,  the  moment  we  entered  the  harbour. 
Accordingly,  the  gay  little  Sunday  boats,  full  of  holiday 
people,  which  had  come  off  to  greet  us,  were  warned 
away  by  the  authorities  ;  we  were  declared  in  quarantine, 
and  a  great  flag  was  solemnly  run  up  to  the  mast-head 
on  the  wharf,  to  make  it  known  to  all  the  town. 

It  was  a  very  hot  day  indeed.  We  were  unshaved, 
unwashed,  undressed,  unfed,  and  could  hardly  enjoy  the 
absurdity  of  lying  blistering  in  a  lazy  harbour,  with 
the  town  looking  on  from  a  respectable  distance,  all  man- 
ner of  whiskered  men  in  cocked  hats  discussing  our  fate 
at  a  remote  guard -house,  with  gestures  (we  looked  very 
hard  at  them  through  telescopes)  expressive  of  a  week's 
detention  at  least :  and  nothing  whatever  the  matter  all 
the  time.  But  even  in  this  crisis  the  Brave  Courier 
achieved  a  triumph.  He  telegraphed  somebody  (1 
saw  nobody)  either  naturally  connected  with  the  hotel, 
or  put  en  rapport  with  the  establishment  for  ttiat  occa 
sion  only.  The  telegraph  was  answered,  and  in  half  an 
hour  or  less,  there  came  a  loud  shout  from  the  guard- 
house. The  captain  was  wanted.  Everybody  helped 
the  captain  into  his  boat.  Everybody  got  his  luggage, 
and  said  we  were  going.  The  captain  rowed  away,  and 
disappeared  behind  a  little  jutting  corner  of  the  Galley- 
slaves'  Prison  :  and  presently  came  back  with  something, 
very  sulkily.  The  Brave  Courier  met  him  at  the  side, 
and  received  the  something  as  its  rightful  owner.  It 
was  a  wicker-basket,  folded  in  a  linen  cloth  ;  and  in  it 
were  two  great  bottles  of  wine,  a  roast  fowl,  some  salt 
fish  chopped  with  garlic,  a  great  loaf  of  bread,  a  dozen 
or  so  of  peaches,  and  a  few  other  trifles.  When  we  had 
selected  our  own  breakfast,  the  Brave  Courier  invited  a 
chosen  party  to  partake  of  these  refreshments,  and  as- 
sured them  that  they  need  not  be  deterred  by  motives  of 
delicacy,  as  he  would  order  a  second  basket  to  be  fur- 
nished at  their  expense.  Which  he  did — no  one  knew 
how — and  by  and  by,  the  captain  being  again  summoned; 
again  sulkily  returned  with  another  something  ;  over 
which  my  popular  attendant  presided  as  before  ;  carv» 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


185 


ing  with  a  clasp-knife,  his  own  personal  property,  some-. 
thing  smaller  than  a  Roman  sword. 

The  whole  party  on  board  were  made  merry  by  these 
unexpected  supplies  ;  but  none  more  so  than  a  loqua 
cious  little  Frenchman,  who  got  drunk  in  five  minutes, 
and  a  sturdy  Cappuccino  Friar,  who  had  taken  every- 
body's fancy  mightily,  and  was  one  of  the  best  friars 
in  the  world,  I  verily  believe. 

He  had  a  free,  open  countenance  ;  and  a  rich  brown, 
flowing  beard  :  and  was  a  remarkably  handsome  man,  of 
about  fifty.  He  had  come  up  to  us,  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  inquired  whether  we  were  sure  to  be  at  Nice  by 
eleven  ;  saying  that  he  particularly  wanted  to  know,  be- 
cause if  we  reached  it  by  that  time  he  would  have  to 
perform  mass,  and  must  deal  with  the  consecrated  wafer, 
fasting ;  whereas,  if  there  were  no  chance  of  his  being 
in  time,  he  would  immediately  breakfast.  He  made  this 
communication,  under  the  idea  that  the  Brave  Courier 
was  the  captain ;  and  indeed  he  looked  much  more  like 
it  than  anybody  else  on  board.  Being  assured  that  we 
should  arrive  in  good  time,  he  fasted,  and  talked,  fasting, 
to  everybody,  with  the  most  charming  good -humour ; 
answering  jokes  at  the  expense  of  friars,  with  other 
jokes  at  the  expense  of  laymen,  and  saying  that  friar  as 
he  was,  he  would  engage  to  take  up  the  two  strongest 
men  on  board,  one  after  the  other,  with  his  teeth,  and 
carry  them  along  the  deck.  Nobody  gave  him  the  op- 
portunity, but  I  dare  say  he  could  have  done  it  ;  for  he 
was  a  gallant,  noble  figure  of  a  man,  even  in  the  Cap- 
puccino dress,  which  is  the  ugliest  and  most  ungainly 
that  can  well  be. 

All  this  had  given  great  delight  to  the  loquacious 
Frenchman,  who  gradually  patronized  the  Friar  very 
much,  and  seemed  to  commiserate  him  as  one  who  might 
have  been  born  a  Frenchman  himself,  but  for  an  unfor 
tunate  destiny.  Although  his  patronage  was  such  as  a 
mouse  might  bestow  upon  a  lion,  he  had  a  vast  opinion  of 
its  condescension  ;  and  in  the  warmth  of  that  sentiment, 
occasionally  rose  on  tiptoe,  to  slap  the  Friar  on  the  back. 

When  the  baskets  arrived  :  it  being  then  too  late  for 
Mass  :  the  Friar  went  to  work  bravely  :  eating  prodig- 
iously of  the  cold  meat  and  bread,  drinking  deep  draughts 
of  the  wine,  smoking  cigars,  taking  snuff,  sustaining  an 
iinlnterrupted  conversation  with  ail  hands,  and  occasion- 
ally running  to  the  boat's  side  and  hailing  somebody  on 
shore  with  the  intelligence  that  we  must  be  got  out  of 
this  quarantine  somehow  or  other,  as  he  had  to  take  part 
in  a  great  religious  procession  in  the  afternoon.  After 
this,  he  would  cqme  back,  laughing  lustily  from  pure 
good  humour  :  while  the  Frenchman  wrinkled  his  small 
face  into  ten  thousand  creases,  and  said  how  droll  it  was, 
and  what  a  brave  boy  was  that  Friar  I   At  length  the  heat 


186 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


af  the  sun  witliout,  and  of  tlie  wine  within,  made  the 
Frenchman  sleepy.  So,  in  the  noontide  of  his  patronage 
of  his  gigantic  protege,  he  lay  down  among  the  wool, 
,and  began  to  snore. 

It  was  four  o'clock  before  we  were  released  ;  and  the 
Frenchman,  dirty  and  woolly,  and  snuffy,  was  still  sleep- 
ing  when  the  Friar  went  ashore.  As  soon  as  we  were 
free,  we  all  hurried  away,  to  wash  and  dress,  that  we 
might  make  a  decent  appearance  at  the  Procession  ;  and 
I  saw  no  more  of  the  Frenchman  until  we  took  up  our 
station  in  the  main  street  to  see  it  pass,  when  he  squeezed 
himself  into  a  front  place,  elaborately  renovated  ;  threw 
back  his  little  coat,  to  show  a  broad-barred  velvet  waist- 
coat, sprinkled  all  over  with  stars  ;  and  adjusted  himself 
and  his  cane  so  as  utterly  to  bewilder  and  transfix  the 
Friar,  when  he  should  appear. 

The  procession  was  a  very  long  one,  and  included  an 
immense  number  of  people  divided  into  small  parties  ; 
each  party  chanting  nasally,  on  its  own  account,  with- 
out reference  to  any  other,  and  producing  a  most  dismal 
result.  There  were  angels,  crosses.  Virgins  carred  on 
flat  boards  surrounded  by  Cupids,  crowns,  saints,  missals, 
infantry,  tapers,  monks,  nuns,  relics,  dignitaries  of  the 
church  in  green  hats,  walking  under  crimson  parasols  : 
and,  here  and  there,  a  species  of  sacred  street-lamp 
hoisted  on  a  pole.  We  looked  out  anxiously  for  the 
Cappuccini,  and  presently  their  brown  robes  and  corded 
girdles  v.  are  seen  coming  on,  in  a  body. 

I  observed  the  little  Frenchman  chuckle  over  the  idea 
that  when  the  Friar  saw  him  in  the  broad-barred  waist- 
coat, he  would  mentally  exclaim,  *'  Is  that  my  Patron  ! 
That  distinguished  man  !  "  and  would  be  covered  with 
confusion.  Ah  !  never  was  the  Frenchman  so  deceived. 
As  our  friend  the  Cappuccino  advanced,  with  folded 
arms,  he  looked  straight  into  the  visage  of  the  little 
Frenchman,  with  a  bland,  serene,  composed  abstraction, 
not  to  be  described.  There  was  not  the  faintest  trace 
of  recognition  or  amusement  on  his  features  ;  not  the 
smallest  consciousness  of  bread  and  meat,  wine,  snuff, 
or  cigars.  C'est  lui-meme,'*  I  heard  the  little  French- 
man say,  in  some  doubt.  Oh  yes,  it  was  himself.  It 
was  not  his  brother  or  his  nephew,  very  like  him.  It 
was  he.  He  walked  in  great  state  :  being  one  of  the 
Superiors  of  the  Order  :  and  looked  his  part  to  admira- 
tion. There  never  was  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind 
as  the  contemplative  way  in  which  he  allowed  his  placid 
gaze  to  rest  on  us,  his  late  companions,  as  if  he  had  never 
seen  us  in  his  life  and  didn't  see  us  then.  The  French- 
man, quite  humbled,  took  off  his  hat  at  last,  but  the 
Friar  still  passed  on,  with  the  same  imperturbable  se- 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


187 


renity  ;  and  the  broad-barred  waistcoat,  fading  into  the 
crowd,  was  seen  no  more. 

The  procession  wound  up  with  a  discharge  of  musketry 
that  shook  all  the  windows  in  the  town.  Next  afternoon 
we  started  for  Genoa,  by  the  famed  Cornice  Road. 

The  half-French,  half-Italian  Vetturino,  who  under- 
took, with  his  little  rattling  carriage  and  pair,  to  convey 
us  thither  in  three  days,  was  a  careless,  good-looking 
fellow,  whose  light-heartedness  and  singing  propensities 
knew  no  bounds  as  long  as  we  went  on  smoothly.  So 
long,  he  had  a  word  and  a  smile,  and  a  flick  of  his  whip, 
for  all  the  peasant  girls,  and  odds  and  ends  of  the  Son- 
nambula  for  all  the  echoes.  So  long,  he  went  jingling 
through  every  little  village,  with  bells  on  his  horses  and 
rings  in  his  ears  :  a  very  meteor  of  gallantry  and  cheer- 
fulness. But,  it  was  highly  characteristic  to  see  him 
under  a  slight  reverse  of  circumstances,  when,  in  one 
part  of  the  journey  we  came  to  a  narrow  place  where  a 
wagon  had  broken  down  and  stopped  up  the  road.  His 
hands  were  twined  in  his  hair  immediately,  as  if  a  com- 
bination of  all  the  direst  accidents  in  life  had  suddenly 
falle'"  on  his  devoted  head.  He  swore  in  French,  prayed 
in  Italian,  and  went  up  and  down,  beating  his  feet  on 
the  ground  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  despair.  There  were 
various  carters  and  mule-drivers  assembled  round  the 
broken  wagon,  and  at  last  some  man,  of  an  original  turn 
of  mind,  proposed  that  a  general  and  joint  effort  should 
be  made  to  get  things  to  rights  again,  and  clear  the  way 
— an  idea  which  I  verily  believe  would  never  have  pre- 
sented itself  to  our  friend,  though  he  had  remained  there 
until  now.  It  was  done  at  no  great  cost  of  labour  ;  but 
at  every  pause  in  the  doing,  his  hands  were  wound  in 
his  hair  again,  as  if  there  were  no  ray  of  hope  to  lighten 
his  misery.  The  moment  he  was  on  his  box  once  more, 
and  clattering  briskly  down  hill,  he  returned  to  the  Son- 
nambula  and  the  Peasant  girls,  as  if  it  were  not  in  the 
power  of  misfortune  to  depress  him. 

Much  of  the  romance  of  the  beautiful  towns  and  vil- 
lages on  this  beautiful  road,  disappears  when  they  are 
entered,  for  many  of  them  are  very  miserable.  The 
streets  are  narrow,  dark,  and  dirty  ;  the  inhabitants  lean 
and  squalid  ;  and  the  withered  old  women,  with  their 
wiry  grey  hair  twisted  up  into  a  knot  on  the  top  of  the 
head,  like  a  pad  to  carry  loads  on,  are  so  intensely  ugly, 
both  along  the  Riviera,  and  in  Genoa,  too,  that,  seen 
straggling  about  in  dim  door-ways  with  their  spindles, 
or  crooning  together  in  by  corners,  they  are  like  a  popu- 
lation of  Witches — except  that  they  certainly  are  not  to 
be  suspected  of  brooms  or  any  other  instrument  of  clean- 
liness. Neither  are  the  pigskins,  in  common  use  to  hold 
wine,  and  hung  out  in  the  sun  in  all  directions,  by  any 


188 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


means  ornamental,  as  they  always  preserve  the  form  of 
very  bloated  pigs,  with  their  heads  and  legs  cut  off, 
dangling  upside-down  by  their  own  tails. 

These  towns,  as  they  are  seen  in  the  approach,  how- 
ever :  nestling,  with  their  clustering  roofs  and  towers, 
among  trees  on  steep  hill-sides,  or  built  upon  the  brink 
of  noble  bays  :  are  charming.  The  vegetation  is,  every- 
where, luxuriant  and  beautiful,  and  the  Palm  tree  makes 
a  novel  feature  in  the  novel  scenery.  In  one  town,  San 
Hemo— a  most  extraordinary  place,  built  on  gloomy  open 
arches,  so  that  one  might  ramble  underneath  the  whole 
town — there  are  pretty  terrace  gardens ;  in  other  towns, 
there  is  the  clang  of  shipwrights'  hammers,  and  the 
building  of  small  vessels  on  the  beach.  In  some  of  the 
broad  bays,  the  fleets  of  Europe  might  ride  at  anchor. 
In  every  case,  each  little  group  of  houses  presents,  in  the 
distance,  some  enchanting  confusion  of  picturesque  and 
fanciful  shapes. 

The  road  itself — now  high  above  the  glittering  sea, 
which  breaks  against  the  foot  of  the  precipice:  now  turn- 
ing inland  to  sweep  the  shore  of  a  bay :  now  crossing 
the  stony  bed  of  a  mountain  stream  :  now  low  down  on 
the  beach  :  now  winding  among  riven .  rocks  of  many 
forms  and  colours  :  now  chequered  by  a  solitary  ruined 
tower,  one  of  a  chain  of  towers  built,  in  old  time,  to  pro- 
tect the  coast  from  the  invasions  of  the  Li  rbary  Corsairs 
— presents  new  beauties  every  moment.  When  its  own 
striking  scenery  is  passed,  and  it  trails  on  through  a  long 
line  of  suburb,  lying  on  the  flat  sea-shore,  to  Genoa,  then, 
the  changing  glimpses  of  that  noble  city  and  its  harbour, 
awaken  a  new  source  of  interest  ;  freshened  by  every 
huge,  unwieldy,  half -inhabited  old  house  in  its  outskirts  : 
and  coming  to  its  climax  when  the  city  gate  is  reached, 
and  all  Genoa  with  its  beautiful  harbour,  and  neighbour- 
ing hills,  bursts  proudly  on  the  view. 


TO  PARMA,  MODENA,  AND  BOLOGNA. 

I  stROLLED  away  from  Genoa  on  the  6th  of  Novem> 
ber,  bound  for  a  good  many  places  (England  among 
them),  but  first  for  Piacenza ;  for  which  town  I  started 
in  the  coupe  of  a  machine  something  like  a  travelling 
caravan,  in  company  with  the  Brave  Courier,  and  a  lady 
with  a  large  dog,  who  howled  dolefully,  at  intervals,  all 
night.  It  was  very  wet,  and  very  cold  ;  very  dark,  and 
very  dismal ;  we  travelled  at  the  rate  of  barely  f®ur 
miles  an  hour,  and  stopped  nowhere  for  refreshment. 
At  ten  o'clock  next  morning,  we  changed  coaches  at  Ales- 
sandria, where  we  were  packed  up  in  another  coach  (the 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


189 


body  whereof  would  have  beeo  small  for  a  fly),  in  com- 
pany with  a  very  old  priest ;  a  young  Jesuit,  his  com- 
panion— who  carried  their  breviaries  and  other  books, 
and  who,  in  the  exertion  of  getting  into  the  coach,  had 
made  a  gash  of  pink  leg  between  his  black  stocking  and  his 
black  knee-shorts,  that  reminded  one  of  Hamlet  in  Ophe- 
lia's closet,  only  it  was  visible  on  both  legs — a  provincial 
Avvocato  ;  and  a  gentleman  with  a  red  nose  that  had  an 
uncommon  and  singular  sheen  upon  it,  which  I  never 
observed  in  the  human  subject  before.  In  this  way  we 
travelled  on,  until  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  ;  the 
loads  being  still  very  heavy,  and  the  coach  very  slow, 
'  To  mend  the  matter,  the  old  priest  was  troubled  with 
cramps  in  his  legs,  so  that  he  had  to  give  a  terrible  yell 
every  ten  minutes  or  so,  and  be  hoisted  out  by  the  united 
efforts  of  the  company  ;  the  coach  always  stopping  for 
him,  with  great  gravity.  This  disorder,  and  the  roads, 
formed  the  main  subject  of  conversation.  Finding,  in 
the  afternoon,  that  the  coupe  had  discharged  two  people, 
and  had  only  one  passenger  inside — a  monstrous  ugly 
Tuscan,  with  a  great  purple  moustache,  of  which  no  man 
could  see  the  ends  when  he  had  his  hat  on — I  took  ad- 
vantage of  its  better  accommodation,  and  in  company 
with  this  gentleman  (who  was  very  conversational  and 
\  good-humoured)  travelled  on,  until  nearly  eleven  o'clock 
at  night,  when  the  driver  reported  that  he  couldn't  think 
of  going  any  farther,  and  we  accordingly  made  a  halt  at 
a  place  caHed  Stradella. 

The  inn  was  a  series  of  strange  galleries  surrounding  a 
yard  ;  where  our  coach,  and  a  w^agon  or  two,  and  a  lot  of 
fowls,  and  firewood,  were  all  heaped  up  together,  hig- 
gledy-piggledy ;  so  that  you  didn't  know,  and  couldn't 
have  taken  your  oath,  which  was  a  fowl  and  which  was 
a  cart.  We  followed  a  sleepy  man  with  a  flaring  torch, 
into  a  great,  cold  room,  where  there  were  two  immensely 
broad  beds,  on  what  looked  like  two  immensely  broad 
deal  dining-tables  ;  another  deal  table  of  similar  dimen- 
sions in  the  middle  of  the  bare  floor  ;  four  windows  ;  and 
two  chairs.  Somebody  said  it  was  my  room ;  and  I  walked 
up  and  down  it,  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  staring  at  the 
Tuscan,  the  old  priest,  the  young  priest,  and  the  Avvo- 
cato (Red-Nose  lived  in  the  town,  and  had  gone  home), 
who  sat  upon  the  beds,  and  stared  at  me  in  return. 

The  rather  dreary  whimsicality  of  this  stage  of  the  pro- 
ceedings, is  interrupted  by  an  announcement  from  the 
Brave  (he  has  been  cooking)  that  supper  is  ready  ;  and 
to  the  priest's  chamber  (the  next  room  and  the  counter- 
part of  mine)  we  all  adjourn.  The  first  dish  is  a  cabbage, 
boiled  with  a  great  quantity  of  rice  in  a  tureen  full  of 
water,  and  flavoured  with  cheese.  It  is  so  hot,  and  we 
are  so  cold,  that  it  appears  almost  jolly.    The  second 


190 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


dish  is  some  little  bits  of  pork,  fried  with  pigs'  kidneys. 
The  third,  two  red  fowls.  The  fourth,  two  little  red 
turkeys.  The  fifth,  a  huge  stew  of  garlic  and  trufiles 
and  I  don't  know  what  else  ;  and  this  concludes  the  en- 
tertainment. 

Before  I  can  sit  down  in  my  own  chamber,  and  think 
it  of  the  dampest,  the  door  open j,  and  the  Brave  comes 
moving  in,  in  the  middle  of  such  a  quantity  of  fuel  that 
he  looks  like  Birnam  Wood  taking  a  winter  walk.  He 
kindles  this  heap  in  a  twinkling,  and  produces  a  jorum 
of  hot  brandy  and  water  ;  for  that  bottle  of  his  keeps 
company  with  the  seasons,  and  now  holds  nothing  but 
the  purest  eau  de  me.  When  he  has  accomplished  this 
feat,  he  retires  for  the  night ;  and  I  hear  him,  for  an 
hour  afterwards,  and  indeed  until  I  fall  asleep,  making 
jokes  in  some  out-  house  (apparently  under  the  pillow), 
where  he  is  smoking  cigars  with  a  party  of  confidential 
friends.  He  never  was  in  the  house  in  his  life  before  ; 
but  he  knows  everybody  everywhere,  before  he  has  been 
anywhere  five  minutes  ;  and  is  certain  to  have  attracted 
to  himself,  in  the  meantime,  the  enthusiastic  devotion 
of  the  whole  establishment. 

This  is  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night.  At  four  o'clock 
next  morning,  he  is  up  again,  fresher  than  a  new-blown 
rose  ;  making  blazing  fires  without  the  least  authority 
from  the  landlord  ;  producing  mugs  of  scalding  cofitee 
when  nobody  else  can  get  anything  but  cold  water  ;  and 
going  out  into  the  dark  streets,  and  roaring  for  fresh 
milk,  on  the  chance  of  somebody  with  a  cow  getting  up 
to  supply  it.  While  the  horses  are  coming,"  I  stumble 
out  into  the  town  too.  It  seems  to  be  all  one  little  Piazza, 
with  a  cold  damp  wind  blowing  in  and  out  of  the  arches, 
alternately^  and  a  sort  of  pattern.  But  it  is  profoundly 
dark,  and  raining  heavily  ;  and  I  shouldn't  know  it  to- 
morrow, if  I  were  taken  there  to  try.  Which  Heaven 
forbid  ! 

The  horses  arrive  in  about  an  hour.  In  the  interval, 
the  driver  swears  :  sometimes  Christian  oaths,  sometimes 
Pagan  oaths.  Sometimes,  when  it  is  a  long,  compound 
oath,  he  begins  with  Christianity  and  merges  into  Pagan 
ism.  Various  messengers  are  dispatched  ;  not  so  much 
after  the  horses,  as  after  each  other ;  for  the  first  mes 
senger  never  comes  back,  and  all  the  rest  imitate  him= 
At  length  the  horses  appear,  surrounded  by  all  the  mes 
sengers  ;  some  kicking  them,  and  some  dragging  them, 
and  all  shouting  abuse  to  them.  Then,  the  old  priest^ 
the  young  priest,  the  Avvocato,  the  Tuscan,  and  all  oi 
us,  take  our  places  ;  and  sleepy  voices  proceeding  from 
the  doors  of  extraordinary  hutches  in  divers  parts  of  the 
yard,  cry  out  **Addio  corriere  mio !  Buon'  viaggio, 
corriere  1 "    Salutations  which  the  courier,  with  his  face 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


191 


one  monstrous  grin,  returns  in  like  manner  as  we  go 
jolting  and  wallowing  away,  through  the  mud.  # 

At  Piacenza,  which  was  four  or  five  hours'  journey 
from  the  inn  at  Straaella,  we  broke  up  our  little  com- 
pany before  the  hotel  door,  with  divers  manifestations 
of  friendly  feeling  on  all  sides.  The  old  priest  was 
taken  with  the  cramp  again,  before  he  got  half-way 
down  the  street ;  and  the  young  priest  laid  the  bundle 
of  books  on  a  door  step,  while  he  dutifully  rubbed  the 
old  gentleman's  legs.  The  client  of  the  Avvocato  was 
waiting  for  him  at  the  yard-gate,  and  kissed  him  on  each 
cheek,  with  such  a  resounding  smack,  that  I  am  afraid 
he  had  either  a  very  bad  case,  or  a  scantily-furnished 
purse.  The  Tuscan,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  went 
loitering  off,  carrying  his  hat  in  his  hand  that  he  migh* 
the  better  trail  up  the  ends  of  his  dishevelled  moustache. 
And  the  Brave  Courier,  as  he  and  I  strolled  away  to  look 
about  us,  began  immediately  to  entertain  me  with  the 
private  histories  and  family  affairs  of  the  whole  party. 

A  brown,  decayed,  old  town,  Piacenza  is.  A  desert- 
ed, solitary,  grass-grown  place,  with  ruined  ramparts ; 
half  filled-up  trenches,  which  afford  a  frowsy  pasturage 
to  the  lean  kine  that  wander  about  them  ;  and  streets  of 
stern  houses,  moodily  frowning  at  the  other  houses  over 
the  way.  The  sleepiest  and  shabbiest  of  soldiery  go 
wandering  about,  with  the  double  curse  of  laziness  and 
poverty,  uncouthly  wrinkling  their  misfitting  regiment- 
als ;  the  dirtiest  of  children  play  with  their  impromptu 
toys  (pigs  and  mud)  in  the  feeblest  of  gutters  ;  and  the 
gauntest  of  dogs  trot  in  and  out  of  the  dullest  of  arch- 
ways, in  perpetual  search  of  something  to  eat,  which 
they  never  seem  to  find.  A  mysterious  and  solemn 
Palace,  guarded  by  two  colossal  statues,  twin  Genii  of 
the  place,  stands  gravely  in  the  midst  of  the  idle  town  ; 
and  the  king  with  the  marble  legs,  who  flourished  in  the 
time  of  the  thousand  and  one  Nights,  might  live  content- 
edly inside  of  it,  and  never  have  the  energy,  in  his  up- 
per half  of  flesh  and  blood,  to  want  to  come  out. 

What  a  strange,  half-sorrowful  and  half -delicious  doze 
it  is,  to  ramble  through  these  places  gone  to  sleep  and 
basking  in  the  sun  !  Each,  in  its  turn,  appears  to  be,  of 
all  the  mouldy,  dreary,  God-forgotjen  towns  in  the  wide 
world,  the  chief.  Sitting  on  this  hillock  where  a  bastion 
used  to  be,  and  where  a  noisy  fortress  was,  in  the  time 
of  the  old  Roman  station  here,  I  become  aware  that  I 
have  never  known  till  now,  what  it  is  to  be  lazy.  A  dor- 
mouse must  surely  be  in  very  much  the  same  condition 
before  he  retires  under  the  wool  in  his  cage  ;  or  a  tor. 
toise  before  he  buries  himself.  I  feel  that  I  am  getting 
rusty.  That  any  attempt  to  think,  would  be  accompani- 
ed with  a  creaking  noise.    That  there  is  nothing,  any» 


192 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


where,  to  be  done,  or  needing  to  be  done.  That  there  Is 
no  more  human  progress,  motion,  effort,  or  advancement, 
of  any  kind  beyond  this.  That  the  whole  scheme  stop^ 
ped  here  centuries  ago,  and  lay  down  to  rest  until  the 
Day  of  Judgment. 

Never  while  the  Brave  Courier  lives  !  Behold  him 
jingling  out  of  Piacenza,  and  staggering  this  way,  in  the 
tallest  posting  chaise  ever  seen,  so  that  he  looks  out  oi 
the  front  window  as  if  he  were  peeping  over  a  garden 
wall  ;  while  the  postilion,  concentrated  essence  of  all  the 
shabbiness  of  Italy,  pauses  for  a  moment  in  his  animated 
conversation,  to  touch  his  hat  to  a  blunt-nosed  little 
Virgin,  hardly  less  shabby  than  himself,  enshrined  m  8 
plaster  Punch's  show  outside  the  town. 

In  Genoa,  and  thereabouts,  they  train  the  vines  on 
trellis-work,  supported  on  square  clumsy  pillars,  which, 
in  themselves,  are  anything  but  picturesque.  But,  here, 
they  twine  them  around  trees,  and  let  them  trail  among 
the  hedges  ;  and  the  vineyards  are  full  of  trees,  regularly 
planted  for  this  purpose,  each  with  its  own  vine  twining 
and  clustering  about  it.  Their  leaves  are  now  of  the 
brightest  gold  and  deepest  red  ;  and  never  was  anything 
so  enchantingly  graceful  and  full  of  beauty.  Through 
miles  of  these  delightful  forms  and  colours,  the  road 
winds  its  way.  The  wild  festoons,  the  elegant  wreaths, 
and  crowns,  and  garlands  of  all  shapes  ;  the  fairy  nets 
iiung  over  great  trees,  and  making  them  prisoners  in 
sport ;  the  tumbled  heaps  and  mounds  of  exquisite 
shapes  upon  the  ground  ;  how  rich  and  beautiful  they 
are  I  And  every  now  and  then,  a  long,  long  line  of 
trees,  will  be  all  bound  and  garlanded  together  :  as  if 
they  had  taken  hold  of  one  another,  and  were  coming 
dancing  down  the  field  I 

Parma  has  cheerful,  stirring  streets,  for  an  Italian 
town  ;  and  consequently  is  not  so  characteristic  as  many 
places  of  less  note.  Always  excepting  the  retired  Piazza, 
where  the  Cathedral,  Baptistery,  and  Campanile— ancient 
buildings,  of  a  sombre  brown,  embellished  with  in- 
numerable grotesque  monsters  and  dreamy-looking  creat- 
ures carved  in  marble  and  red  stone — are  clustered  in  a 
noble  and  magnificent  repose.  Their  silent  presence 
was  only  invaded,  wtien  I  saw  them,  by  the  twittering 
of  the  many  birds  that  were  flying  in  and  out  of  the 
crevices  in  the  stones  and  little  nooks  in  the  architecture, 
where  they  had  made  their  nests.  They  were  busy,  ris- 
ing from  the  cold  shade  of  Temples  made  with  hands, 
into  the  sunny  air  of  Heaven.  Not  so  the  worshippers 
within,  who  were  listening  to  the  same  drowsy  chaunt, 
or  kneeling  before  the  same  kinds  of  images  and  tapers, 
or  whispering,  with  their  heads  bowed  down,  in  the  very 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


193 


selfsame  dark  confessionals,  as  I  had  left  in  Genoa  and 
everywhere  else. 

The  decayed  and  mutilated  paintings  with  which  this 
church  is  covered,  have,  to  my  thinking,  a  remarkably 
mournful  and  depressing  infiuence.  It  is  miserable  to 
see  great  works  of  art — something  of  the  Souls  of  Paint- 
ers — perishing  and  fading  away,  like  human  forms. 
This  cathedral  is  odorous  with  the  rotting  of  Correggio's 
frescoes  in  the  Cupola.  Heaven  knows  how  beautiful 
they  may  have  been  at  one  time.  Connoisseurs  fall  into 
raptures  with  them  now  ;  but  such  a  labyrinth  of  arms 
and  legs  :  such  heaps  of  foreshortened  limbs,  entangled 
and  involved  and  jumbled  together :  no  operative  sur- 
geon, gone  mad,  could  imagine  in  his  wildest  delirium. 

There  is  a  very  interesting  subterranean  church  here  ; 
the  roof  supported  by  marble  pillars,  behind  each  of 
which  there  seemed  to  be  at  least  one  beggar  in  ambush: 
to  say  nothing  of  the  tombs  and  secluded  altars.  From 
every  one  of  these  lurking-places^  such  crowds  of  phan- 
tom-looking men  and  women,  leading  other  men  and 
women  with  twisted  limbs,  or  chattering  jaws,  or  par- 
alytic gestures,  or  idiotic  heads,  or  some  other  sad  in- 
firmity, come  hobbling  out  to  beg,  that  if  the  ruined 
frescoes  in  the  cathedral  above,  had  been  suddenly  ani- 
mated, and  had  retired  to  this  lower  church,  they  could 
hardly  have  made  a  greater  confusion,  or  exhibited  a 
more  confounding  display  of  arms  and  legs. 

There  is  Petrarch's  Monument,  too  ;  and  there  is  the 
Baptistery,  with  its  beautiful  arches  and  immense  font; 
and  there  is  a  gallery  containing  some  very  remarkable 
pictures,  whereof  a  few  were  being  copied  by  hairy- faced 
artists,  with  little  velvet  caps  more  off  their  heads  than 
on.  There  is  the  Farnese  Palace  too  ;  and  in  it  one  of 
the  dreariest  spectacles  of  decay  that  ever  was  seen — a 
grand,  old,  gloomy  theatre,  mouldering  away. 

It  is  a  large  wooden  structure,  of  the  horse-shoe 
ohape ;  the  lower  seats  arranged  upon  the  Roman  plan, 
but  above  them,  great  heavy  chambers  rather  than  boxes, 
where  the  Nobles  sat,  remote,  in  their  proud  state.  Such 
desolation  as  has  fallen  on  this  theatre,  enhanced  in  the 
spectator's  fancy  by  its  gay  intention  and  design,  none 
but  worms  can  be  familiar  with.  A  hundred  and  ten 
years  have  passed,  since  any  play  was  acted  there.  The 
sky  shines  in  through  the  gashes  in  the  roof  ;  the  boxes 
are  dropping  down,  w^asting  away,  and  only  tenanted  by 
rats  ;  damp  and  mildew  smear  the  faded  colours,  and 
make  spectral  mats  upon  the  panels  ;  lean  rags  are  dang* 
ling  down  where  there  were  gay  festoons  on  the  Prosce- 
nium ;  the  stage  has  rotted  so,  that  a  narrow  wooden 
gallery  is  thrown  across  it,  or  it  would  sink  beneath  the 
tread,  and  bury  the  visitor  in  the  gloomy  depth  beneath. 
The  desolation  and  decay  impress  themselves  on  all  the 
GO  Vol.  is 


194  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


senses.  The  air  has  a  mouldering  smell,  and  an  earthy 
taste  ;  any  stray  outer  sounds  that  straggle  in  with  some 
lost  sunbeam,  are  muffled  and  heavy  ;  and  the  worm,  the 
maggot,  and  the  rot  have  changed  the  surface  of  the 
wood  beneath  the  touch,  as  time  will  seam  and  roughen 
a  smooth  hand.  If  ever  Ghosts  act  plays,  they  act 
them  on  this  ghostly  stage. 

It  was  most  delicious  weather,  when  we  came  into 
Modena,  where  the  darkness  of  the  sombre  colonnades 
over  the  footways  skirting  the  main  street  on  either  side, 
was  made  refreshing  and  agreeable  by  the  bright  sky,  so 
wonderfully  blue.  I  passed  from  all  the  glory  of  the 
day,  into  a  dim  cathedral,  where  high  mass  was  perform- 
ing, feeble  tapers  were  burning,  people  were  kneeling 
in  all  directions  before  all  manner  of  shrines,  and  offici- 
ating priests  were  crooning  the  usual  chaunt,  in  the  usual 
low,  dull,  drawling,  melancholy  tone. 

Thinking  how  strange  it  was,  to  find,  in  every  stagnant 
town,  this  same  Heart  beating  with  the  same  monoton- 
ous pulsation,  the  centre  of  the  same  torpid,  listless 
system,  I  came  out  by  another  door,  and  was  suddenly 
scared  to  death  by  a  blast  from  the  shrillest  trumpet 
that  ever  was  blown.  Immediately,  came  tearing  round 
the  corner,  an  equestrian  company  from  Paris  :  marshal- 
ling themselves  under  the  walls  of  the  church,  and 
flouting,  with  their  horses'  heels,  the  griffins,  lions, 
tigers,  and  other  monsters  in  stone  and  marble,  decorat- 
ing its  exterior.  First,  there  came  a  stately  nobleman 
with  a  great  deal  of  hair,  and  no  hat,  bearing  an  enor- 
mous  banner,  on  which  was  inscribed,  Mazeppa  !  to- 
night !  Then,  a  Mexican  chief,  with  a  great  pear- 
shaped  club  on  his  shoulder,  like  Hercules.  Then,  six 
or  eight  Roman  chariots  ;  each  with  a  beautiful  lady  in 
extremely  short  petticoats,  and  unnaturally  pink  tights, 
erect  within  :  shedding  beaming  looks  upon  the  crowds 
in  which  there  was  a  latent  expression  of  discomposure 
and  anxiety,  for  which  I  couldn't  account,  until,  as  the 
open  back  of  each  chariot  presented  itself,  I  saw  the  im- 
mense difficulty  with  which  the  pink  legs  maintained 
their  perpendicular,  over  the  uneven  pavement  of  the 
town  :  which  gave  me  quite  a  new  idea  of  the  ancient 
Romans  and  Britons.  The  procession  was  brought  to  a 
close,  by  some  dozen  indomitable  warriors  of  dilferent 
nations,  riding  two  and  two,  and  haughtily  surveying 
the  tame  population  of  Modena  :  among  whom,  however, 
they  occasionally  condescended  to  scatter  largesse  in  the 
form  of  a  fev/  handbills.  After  caracolling  among  the 
lions  and  tigers,  and  proclaiming  that  evening's  enter- 
tainments with  blast  of  trumpet,  it  then  filed  off,  by  the 
other  end  of  the  square,  and  left  a  new  and  greatly  in* 
creased  dulness  behind. 


PICTURES  FllOM  ITALY. 


195 


*  When  the  procession  had  so  entirely  passed  away, 
that  the  shrill  trumpet  was  mild  in  the  distance,  and  the 
tail  of  the  last  horse  was  hopelessly  round  the  corner, 
the  people  who  had  come  out  of  the  church  to  stare  at  it, 
went  back  again.  But  one  old  lady,  kneeling  on  the 
pavement  within,  near  the  door,  had  seen  it  all,  and  had 
been  immensely  interested,  without  getting  up  ;  and  this 
old  lady's  eye,  at  that  juncture,  I  happened  to  catch  :  to 
o-ur  mutual  confusion.  She  cut  our  embarrassment  very 
short,  however,  by  crossing  herself  devoutly,  and  going 
down,  at  full  length,  on  her  face,  before  a  figure  in  a 
fancy  petticoat  and  a  gilt  crown  ;  v/hich  was  so  like  one 
of  the  procession-figures,  that  perhaps  at  this  hour  she 
may  think  the  whole  appearance  a  celestial  vision.  Any- 
how, I  must  certainly  have  forgiven  her  her  interest  in 
the  Circus,  though  I  had  been  lier  Father  Confessor. 

There  was  a  little  fiery-eyed  old  man  with  a  crooked 
shoulder,  in  the  cathedral,  who  took  it  very  ill  that  I 
made  no  effort  to  see  the  bucket  (kept  in  an  old  tower) 
which  the  people  of  Modena  took  away  from  the  people 
of  Bologna  in  the  fourteenth  century,  and  about  which 
there  was  war  made  and  a  mock-heroic  poem  by  Tas- 
SONE,  too.  Being  quite  content,  however,  to  look  at  the 
outside  of  the  tower,  and  feast,  in  imagination,  on  the 
bucket  within  ;  and  preferring  to  loiter  in  the  shade  of 
the  tall  Campanile,  and  about  the  cathedral  ;  I  have  no 
personal  knowledge  of  this  bucket,  even  at  the  present 
time. 

Indeed,  we  were  at  Bologna,  before  the  little  old  man 
^or  the  Guide -Book)  would  have  considered  that  we  had 
half  done  justice  to  the  wonders  of  Modena.  But  it  is 
such  a  delight  to  me  to  leave  new  scenes  behind,  and 
still  go  on,  encountering  newer  scenes — and,  moreover,  I 
have  such  a  perverse  disposition  in  respect  of  sights  that 
are  cut,  and  dried,  and  dictated — that  I  fear  I  sin  against 
similar  authorities  in  every  place  I  visit. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  in  the  pleasant  Cemetery  at  Bologna 
I  found  myself  walking  next  Sunday  morning,  among 
the  stately  marble  tombs  and  colonnades,  in  company 
with  a  crowd  of  Peasants,  and  escorted  by  a  little  Cice-  * 
rone  of  that  town,  who  was  excessively  anxious  for  the 
honour  of  the  place,  and  most  solicitous  to  divert  my  at- 
tention from  the  bad  monuments  :  whereas  he  was  never 
tired  of  extolling  tho  good  ones.  Seeing  this  little  man 
{a  good-humoured  little  man  he  was,  who  seemed  to  have 
nothing  in  his  face  but  shining  teeth  and  eyes)  looking, 
wistfully,  at  a  certain  plot  of  grass,  I  asked  him  who 
was  buried  there.  "  The  poor  people,  Signore,''  he  said, 
with  a  shrug  and  smile,  and  stopping  to  look  back  at  me 
— for  he  always  went  on  a  little  before,  and  took  off  his 
hat  to  introduce  every  new  monument      Only  the  poor, 


196  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Signore  !  It's  very  cheerful.  It's  very  lively.  How 
green  it  is,  how  cool !  It's  like  a  meadow  I  There  are 
five," — holding  up  all  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  to  ex- 
press the  number,  which  an  Italian  peasant  will  always 
do,  if  it  be  within  the  compass  of  his  ten  fingers, — 
"  there  are  five  of  my  little  children  buried  there,  Sig- 
nore ;  just  there  ;  a  little  to  the  right.  Well  !  Thanks 
to  God  !  It's  very  cheerful.  How  green  it  is,  how  cool 
it  is  !    It's  quite  a  meadow  !  " 

He  looked  me  very  hard  in  the  face,  and  seeing  I 
was  sorry  for  him,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  (every  Cicerone 
takes  snuff),  and  made  a  little  bow ;  partly  in  depreca- 
tion of  his  having  alluded  to  such  a  subject,  and  partly 
in  memory  of  the  children  and  of  his  favourite  saint.  It 
was  as  unaffected  a^d  as  perfectly  natural  a  little  bow, 
CIS  ever  man  made.  Immediately  afterwards,  he  took  his 
hat  off  altogether,  and  begged  to  introduce  me  to  the 
next  monument  ;  and  his  eyes  and  his  teeth  shone 
brighter  than  before. 


THROUGH  BOLOGNA  AND  FERRARA. 

There  was  such  a  very  smart  official  in  attendance  at 
the  Cemetery  where  the  little  Cicerone  had  buried  his 
children,  that  when  the  little  Cicerone  suggested  to  me 
in  a  whisper,  that  there  would  be  no  offence  in  present- 
ing this  officer  in  return  for  some  slight  extra  service, 
with  a  couple  of  pauls  (about  tenpence,  English  money), 
I  looked  incredulously  at  his  cocked  hat,  wash-leather 
gloves,  well-made  uniform,  and  dazzling  buttons,  and 
rebuked  the  kittle  Cicerone  with  a  grave  shake  of  the 
head.  For,  in  splendour  of  appearance,  he  was  at  least 
equal  to  the  Deputy  Usher  of  the  Black  Rod ;  and  the 
idea  of  his  carrying,  as  Jeremy  Diddler  would  say,  such 
a  thing  as  tenpence  "  -  way  with  him,  seemed  monstrous. 
He  took  it  in  excellent  part,  however,  when  I  made  bold 
to  give  it  him,  and  pulled  off  his  cocked  hat  with  a 
*  flourish  that  would  have  been  a  bargain  at  double  the 
money. 

It  seemed  to  be  his  duty  to  describe  the  monuments  to 
the  people — at  all  events  he  was  doing  so  ;  and  when  I 
compared  him,  like  Gulliver  in  Brobdignag,  with  the 
Institutions  of  my  own  beloved  country,  I  could  not  re- 
frain from  tears  of  pride  and  exultation."  He  had  no 
pace  at  all ;  no  more  than  a  tortoise.  He  loitered  as  the 
people  loitered,  that  they  might  gratify  their  curiosity  ; 
and  positively  allowed  them,  now  and  then,  to  read  the 
inscriptions  on  the  tombs.  He  was  neither  shabby,  nor 
insolent,  nov  churlish,  nor  ignorant.    He  spoke  his  own 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY.  197 


language  with  perfect  propriety,  and  seemed  to  consider 
himself,  in  his  way,  a  kind  of  teacher  of  the  people,  and 
to  entertain  a  just  respect  both  for  himself  and  tliem. 
They  would  no  more  have  such  a  man  for  a  Verger  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  than  they  would  let  the  people  in 
(as  they  do  at  Bologna)  to  see  the  monuments  foi 
nothing.* 

Again,  an  ancient  sombre  town,  under  the  brilliant 
sky  ;  with  heavy  arcades  over  the  footways  of  the  older 
streets,  and  lighter  and  more  cheerful  archways  in  the 
newer  portions  of  the  town.  Again,  brown  piles  of 
sacred  buildings,  with  more  birds  flying  in  and  out  of 
chinks  in  the  stones  ;  and  more  snarling  monsters  for 
the  bases  of  the  pillars.  Again,  rich  churches,  drowsy 
masses,  curling  incense,  tinkling  bells,  priests  in  bright 
vestments :  pictures,  tapers,  laced  altar  cloths,  crosses^ 
images,  and  artificial  flowers. 

There  is  a  grave  and  learned  air  about  the  city,  and  a 
pleasant  gloom  upon  it,  that  would  leave  it,  a  distinct 
and  separate  impression  in  the  mind,  among  a  crowd  of 
cities,  though  it  were  not  still  further  marked  in  the 
traveller's  remembrance  by  the  two  brick  leaning  towers 
(suflBciently  unsightly  in  themselves,  it  must  be  acknowl- 
edged), inclining  cross- wise  as  if  they  were  bowing 
stiffly  to  each  other — a  most  extraordinary  termination 
to  the  perspective  of  some  of  the  narrow  streets.  The 
colleges,  and  churches  too,  and  palaces:  and  above  aii 
the  academy  of  Fine  Arts,  where  there  are  a  host  of  in- 
teresting pictures,  especially  by  GuiDO,  DoMENicnmo, 
and  LuDOVico  Caracci  :  give  it  a  place  of  its  own  in  the 
memory.  Even  though  these  were  not,  and  there  were 
nothing  else  to  remember  it  by,  the  great  Meridian  on 
the  pavement  of  the  church  of  San  Petronio,  where  the 
sunbeams  mark  the  time  among  the  kneeling  people, 
would  give  it  a  fanciful  and  pleasant  interest. 

Bologna  being  very  full  of  tourists,  detained  there  by 
an  inundation  which  rendered  the  road  to  Florence  im- 
passable, I  was  quartered  up  at  the  top  of  an  hotel,  in 
an  out-of-the-way  room  which  I  never  could  find  :  con- 
taining abed,  big  enough  for  a  boarding  school,  v/hich 
I  couldn't  fall  asleep  in.  The  chief  among  the  waiters 
who  visited  this  lonely  retreat,  where  there  was  no  other 
company  but  the  swallows  in  the  broad  eaves  over  the 
window,  was  a  man  of  one  idea  in  connection  with  the 
English  ;  and  the  subject  of  this  harmless  monomania, 
was  Lord  Byron.  I  made  the  discovery  by  accidentally 
remarking  to  him,  at  breal^fast,  that  the  matting  with 
which  the  floor  was  covered,  was  very  comfortable  at 
ehat  season,  when  he  immediately  replied  that  Mil  or 


*  A  far  more  liberal  and  just  recognition  of  the  public  has  arisen  In 
Westminster  Abbey  since  this  was  written. 


198 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Beeron  had  been  much  attached  to  that  kind  of  mattingo 
Observing",  at  the  same  moment,  that  I  took  no  milk,  he 
exclaimed  with  enthusiasm,  that  Milor  Beeron  had  never 
touched  it.  At  first,  I  took  it  for  granted,  in  my  inno- 
cence, that  he  had  been  one  of  the  Beeron  servants  , 
but  no,  he  said  no,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking 
about  my  Lord,  to  English  gentlemen  ;  that  was  all.  He 
knew  all  about  him,  he  said.  In  proof  of  it,  he  con. 
nected  him  with  every  possible  topic,  from  the  Monte 
Pulciano  wine  at  dinner  (which  was  grown  on  an  estate 
he  had  owned),  to  the  big  bed  itself,  which  was  the  very 
model  of  his.  When  I  left  the  inn,  he  coupled  with  his 
final  bow  in  the  yard,  a  parting  assurance  that  the  road 
by  which  I  was  going,  had  been  Milor  Beeron's  favourite 
ride  ;  and  before  the  horse's  feet  had  well  begun  to 
clatter  on  the  pavement,  he  ran  briskly  up-stairs  again ^ 
I  dare  say  to  tell  some  other  Englishman  in  some  other 
solitary  room  that  the  guest  who  had  just  departed  was 
Lord  Beeron's  living  image. 

T  had  entered  Bologna  by  night — almost  midnight — 
and  all  along  the  road  thither,  after  our  entrance  into 
the  Papal  territory  :  which  is  not,  in  any  part,  supreme- 
ly well  governed,  Saint  Peter's  keys  being  rather  rusty 
now  :  the  driver  had  so  worried  about  the  danger  of 
robbers  in  travelling  after  dark,  and  had  so  infected  the 
Brave  Courier,  and  the  two  had  been  so  constantly  stop- 
ping and  getting  up  and  down  to  look  after  a  portman- 
teau which  was  tied  on  behind,  that  I  should  have  felt  al- 
most obliged  to  any  one  who  would  have  had  the  goodness 
to  take  it  away.  Hence  it  was  stipulated,  that,  when- 
ever we  left  Bologna,  we  should  start  so  as  not  to  arrive 
at  Ferrara  later  than  eight  at  night ;  and  a  delightful  af- 
ternoon and  evening  journey  it  was,  albeit  through  a  flat 
district  which  gradually  became  more  marshy  from  the 
overflow  of  brooks  and  rivers  in  the  recent  heavy  rains. 

sunset,  when  I  was  walking  on  alone,  while  the 
horses  rested,  I  arrived  upon  a  little  scene,  which, 
by  one  of  those  singular  mental  operations  of  which  we 
are  all  conscious,  seemed  perfectly  familiar  to  me,  and 
whi-ch  I  see  distinctly  now.  There  was  not  much  in  it. 
In  the  blood-red  light,  there  was  a  mournful  sheet  of 
water,  just  stirred  by  the  evening  wind  ;  upon  its  mar- 
gin a  few  trees.  In  the  foreground  was  a  group  of 
silent  peasant  girls  leaning  over  the  parapet  of  a  little 
bridge,  and  looking,  now  up  at  the  sky,  now  down  into 
the  water ;  in  the  distance,  a  deep  bell :  the  shadow  of 
approaching  night  on  everything.  If  I  had  been  mur- 
dered there,  in  some  former  life,  I  could  not  have  seemed 
to  remember  the  place  more  thoroughly,  or  with  a  more 
emphatic  chilling  of  the  blood  ;  and  the  real  remem- 


PICTURES  PROM  ITALY. 


199 


brance  of  it  acquired  in  that  minute,  is  so  strengthened 
by  the  imaginary  recollection,  that  I  hardly  think  I 
could  forget  it. 

More  solitary,  more  depopulated,  more  deserted,  old 
Ferrara,  than  any  city  of  the  solemn  brotherhood  I  The 
grass  so  grows  up  in  the  silent  streets,  that  anyone 
might  make  hay  there,  literally,  while  the  sun  shines. 
But  the  sun  shines  with  diminished  cheerfulness  in 
grim  Ferrara  ;  and  the  people  are  so  few  who  pass  and 
repass  through  the  public  places,  that  the  flesh  of  its  in- 
habitants might  be  grass  indeed,  and  growing  in  the 
squares. 

I  wonder  why  the  head  coppersmith  in  an  Italian 
town,  always  lives  next  door  to  the  Hotel,  or  opposite  : 
making  the  visitor  feel  as  if  the  beating  hammers  were 
his  own  heart,  palpitating  with  a  deadly  energy!  I 
wonder  why  jealous  corridors  surround  the  bedroom  on 
all  sides,  and  fill  it  with  unnecessary  doors  that  can't  be 
shut,  and  will  not  open,  and  abut  on  pitchy  darkness  I 
I  wonder  why  it  is  not  enough  that  these  distrustful 
genii  stand  agape  at  one's  dreams  all  night,  but  there 
must  also  be  round  open  portholes  high  in  the  wall, 
suggestive,  when  a  mouse  or  rat  is  heard  behind  the 
wainscot,  of  a  somebody  scraping  the  wall  with  his  toes, 
in  his  endeavours  to  reach  one  of  these  portholes  and 
look  in  I  I  wonder  why  the  faggots  are  so  constructed, 
as  to  know  of  no  effect  but  an  agony  of  heat  when  they 
are  lighted  and  replenished,  and  an  agony  of  cold  and 
suffocation  at  all  other  times  !  I  wonder,  above  all,  why 
it  is  the  great  feature  of  domestic  architecture  in  Italian 
inns,  that  all  the  fire  goes  up  the  chimney,  except  the 
smoke  ! 

The  answer  matters  little.  Coppersmiths,  doors, 
portholes,  smoke,  and  faggots,  are  welcome  to  me.  Give 
me  the  smiling  faces  of  the  attendant,  man  or  woman  ; 
the  courteous  manner  ;  the  amiable  desire  to  please  and 
to  be  pleased ;  the  Mght-hearted,  pleasant,  simple  air — 
so  many  jewels  set  in  dirt — and  I  am  theirs  again  to- 
morrow ! 

Ariosto's  house,  Tasso's  prison,  a  rare  old  gothic  ca- 
chedral,  and  more  churches  of  course,  are  the  sights  of 
Ferrara.  But  the  long  silent  streets,  and  the  dismantled 
palaces,  where  ivy  waves  in  lieu  of  banners,  and  where 
rank  weeds  are  slowly  creeping  up  the  long- untrodden 
stairs,  are  the  best  sights  of  all. 

The  aspect  of  this  dreary  town,  half  an  hour  before 
sunrise  one  fine  morning,  when  I  left  it,  was  as  pictur- 
esque as  it  seemed  unreal  and  spectral.  It  was  no  mat- 
ter that  the  people  were  not  yet  out  of  bed  ;  for  if  they 
had  all  been  up  2.116.  busy  they  would  have  made  but 
libtl«  differeii«e  m  tkstt  desert  of  a  place.    It  was  best 


200  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  see  it  without  a  single  figure  in  the  picture  ;  a  city 
of  the  dead,  without  one  solitary  survivor.  Pestilence 
might  have  ravaged  streets,  squares,  and  market-places  ; 
and  sack  and  siege  have  ruined  the  old  houses,  battered 
down  their  doors  and  windows,  and  made  breaches  in 
their  roofs.  In  one  part,  a  great  tower  rose  into  the  air  ; 
the  only  landmark  in  the  melancholy  view.  In  another, 
a  prodigious  Castle,  with  a  moat  about  it,  stood  aloof  : 
a  sullen  city  in  itself.  In  the  black  dungeons  of  this 
castle,  Parisina  and  her  lover  were  beheaded  in  the  dead 
of  night.  The  red  light,  beginning  to  shine  when  I 
looked  back  upon  it,  stained  its  walls  without,  as  they 
have,  many  a  time,  been  stained  within,  in  old  days  ; 
but  for  any  sign  of  life  they  gave,  the  castle  and  the 
eity  might  have  been  avoided  by  all  human  creatures, 
from  the  moment  when  the  axe  went  down  upon  the 
last  of  the  two  lovers :  and  might  have  never  vibrated 
to  another  saund 

Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 

Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen  shock. 

Coming  to  the  Po,  which  was  greatly  swollen,  and 
running  fiercely,  we  crossed  it  by  a  floating  bridge  of 
boats,  and  so  came  into  the  Austrian  territory,  and  re- 
sumed our  journey  :  through  a  country  of  which,  for 
some  miles,  a  great  part  was  under  water.  The  brave 
Courier  and  the  soldiery  had  first  quarrelled,  for  half  an 
hour  or  more,  over  our  eternal  passport.  But  this  was 
a  daily  relaxation  with  the  Brave,  who  was  always 
stricken  deaf  when  shabby  functionaries  in  uniform 
came,  as  they  constantly  did  come,  plunging  out  of 
wooden  boxes  to  look  at  it — or  in  other  words  to  beg — 
and  who,  stone  deaf  to  my  entreaties  that  the  man  might 
have  a  trifle  given  him,  and  we  resume  our  journey  in 
peace,  was  wont  to  sit  reviling  the  functionary  in  broken 
English  :  while  the  unfortunate  man's  face  was  a  portrait 
of  mental  agony  framed  in  the  coach  window,  from  his 
perfect  ignorance  of  what  was  being  said  to  his  dispar- 
agement. 

There  was  a  Postilion,  in  the  course  of  this  day's 
journey,  as  wild  and  savagely  good4ooking  a  vagabond  as 
you  would  desire  to  see.  He  was  a  tall,  stout-made^  dark- 
complexioned  fellow,  with  a  profusion  of  shaggy  black 
hair  hanging  all  over  his  face,  and  great  black  whiskers 
stretching  down  his  throat.  His  dress  was  a  torn  suit 
of  rifle  gr«en,  garnished  here  and  there  with  red  ;  a 
steeple-crewned  hat,  innocent  of  nap^  with  a  broken  and 
bedraggled  feather  stuck  in  the  band  ;  and  a  flaming  red 
neck-kerchief  hanging  on  his  shoulders.  He  was  not  in 
the  saddle,  but  reposed,  quite  at  his  ease,  on  a  sort  of 
low  foot-board  in  front  of  the  postchaise,  down  among 


PICTURES  PROM  ITALY. 


m 


the  horses'  tails — convenient  for  having  his  brains  tlcke<!l 
out,  at  any  moment.  To  this  Brigand,  the  Brave  Courier, 
when  we  were  at  a  reasonable  trot,  happened  to  suggest 
the  practicability  of  going  faster.  He  receive  the  pro- 
posal with  a  perfect  yell  of  derision  ;  brandished  hie 
whip  about  his  head  (such  a  whip  1  it  was  more  like  a 
hDme-made  bow)  ;  flung  up  his  heels,  much  higher  than 
the  horses  ;  and  disappeared,  in  a  paroxysm,  somewhere 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  axletree.  I  fully  expected 
to  see  him  lying  in  the  road,  a  hundred  yards  behind, 
but  up  came  the  steeple-crowned  hat  again,  next  minute, 
and  he  was  seen  reposing,  as  on  a  sofa,  entertaining  him- 
self with  the  idea,  and  crying,  Ha  ha  !  what  next.  Oh 
the  devil  I  Faster  too  !  Shoo — ^hoo— o — o  I  (This  last 
ejaculation,  an  inexpressibly  defiant  hoot.)  Being 
anxious  to  reach  our  immediate  destination  that  night,  I 
ventured,  by-and-by,  to  repeat  the  experiment  on  my 
own  account.  It  produced  exactly  the  same  effect. 
Round  fiew  the  whip  with  the  same  scornful  flourish, 
up  came  the  heels,  down  went  the  steeple-crowned  hat, 
and  presently  he  reappeared,  reposing  as  before  and 
saying  to  himself,  **Ha  ha!  what  next  I  Faster  too. 
Oh  the  devil  I  Shoo — hoo — o — o  1  '* 


AN  ITALIAN  DREAM. 

I  HAD  been  travelling,  for  some  days  ;  resting  very 
little  in  the  night,  and  never  in  the  day.  The  rapid  and 
unbroken  succession  of  novelties  that  had  passed  before 
me,  came  back  like  half-formed  dreams  :  and  a  crowd  of 
objects  wandered  in  the  greatest  confusion  through  my 
mind,  as  I  travelled  on,  by  a  solitary  road.  At  intervals, 
some  one  among  them  would  stop,  as  it  were,  in  its  rest- 
less flitting  to  and  fro,  and  enable  me  to  look  at  it,  quite 
steadily,  and  behold  it  in  full  distinctness.  After  a  few 
moments,  it  would  dissolve,  like  a  view  in  a  magic-lan- 
tern ;  and  while  I  saw  some  part  of  it  quite  plainly,  and 
some  faintly,  and  some  not  at  all,  would  show  me  another 
of  the  many  places  I  had  lately  seen,  lingering  behind 
it,  and  coming  through  it.  This  was  no  sooner  visible 
than,  in  its  turn,  it  melted  into  something  else. 

At  one  moment,  I  was  standing  again,  before  the 
brown  old  rugged  churches  of  Modena.  As  I  recognised 
the  curious  pillars  with  grim  monsters  for  their  bases,  I 
seemed  to  see  them,  standing  by  themselves  in  the  ouiet. 
square  at  Padua,  where  there  were  the  staid  old  Univer- 
sity, and  the  figures,  demurely  gowned,  grouped  here  and 
there  in  the  open  space  about  it.  Then,  I  was  strolling 
m  the  outskirts  of  that  pleasant  city,  admiring  the  un. 


202 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


usual  neatness  of  the  dwelling-liouses,  gardens,  and 
orchards,  as  I  had  seen  them  a  few  hours  before.  In 
their  stead  arose,  immediately,  the  two  towers  of 
Bologna ;  and  the  most  obstinate  of  all  these  objects, 
failed  to  hold  its  ground,  a  minute,  before  the  monstrous 
moated  castle  of  Ferrara,  w^hich,  like  an  illustration  to  a 
wild  romance,  came  back  again  in  the  red  sunrise,  lord- 
ing it  over  the  solitary,  grass-grown,  withered  town.  In 
short,  I  had  that  incoherent  but  delightful  jumble  in  my 
brain,  which  travellers  are  apt  to  have,  and  are  indo- 
lently willing  to  encourage.  Every  shake  of  the  coach 
in  which  I  sat,  half  dozing  in  the  dark,  appeared  to  jerk 
some  new  recollection  out  of  its  place,  and  to  jerk  some 
other  new  recollection  into  it,  and  in  this  state  I  fell 
asleep. 

I  was  awakened  after  some  time  (as  I  thought)  by  the 
stopping  of  the  coach.  It  was  now  quite  night,  and  we 
were  at  the  water-side.  There  lay  here,  a  black  boat, 
with  a  little  house  or  cabin  in  it  of  the  same  mournful 
colour.  When  I  had  taken  my  seat  in  this,  the  boat 
was  paddled,  by  two  men,  towards  a  great  light  lying  in 
the  distance  on  the  sea. 

Ever  and  again,  there  was  a  dismal  sigh  of  wind.  It 
ruffled  the  water,  and  rocked  the  boat,  and  sent  the  dark 
clouds  flying  before  the  stars.  I  could  not  but  think  how 
strange  it  was,  to  be  floating  away  at  that  hour  :  leaving 
the  land  behind,  and  going  on,  towards  this  light  upon 
the  sea.  It  soon  began  to  burn  brighter  ^  and  from  being 
one  light  became  a  cluster  of  tapers,  twinkling  and  shin- 
ing out  of  the  water,  as  the  boat  approached  towards 
them  by  a  dreamy  kind  of  track,  marked  out  upon  the 
sea  by  posts  and  piles. 

We  had  floated  on,  five  miles  or  so,  over  the  dark 
water,  when  I  heard  it  rippling,  in  my  dream,  against 
some  obstruction  near  at  hand.  Looking  out  attentively, 
I  saw,  through  the  gloom,  a  something  black  and  massive 
— ^like  a  shore,  but  lying  close  and  flat  upon  the  water, 
like  a  raft — which  we  were  gliding  past.  The  chief  of 
the  two  rowers  said  it  was  a  burial-place. 

Full  of  the  interest  and  wonder  which  a  cemetery  lying 
out  there,  in  the  lonely  sea,  inspired,  I  turned  to  gaze 
upon  it  as  it  should  recede  in  our  path,  when  it  was 
quickly  shut  out  from  my  view.  Before  I  knew  by  what, 
or  how,  I  found  that  we  were  gliding  up  a  street — a 
phantom  street ;  the  houses  rising  on  both  sides,  from 
the  water,  and  the  black  boat  gliding  on  beneath  their 
windows.  Lights  were  shining  from  some  of  these  case- 
ments, plumbing  the  depth  of  the  black  stream  with 
their  reflected  rays  ;  but  all  was  profoundly  silent. 

So  we  advanced  into  this  ghostly  city,  continuing  to 
hold  our  course  through  narrow  streets  and  lanes,  all 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


303 


filled  and  flowing  with  water.  Some  of  tho  comers 
wher  >  our  way  branched  off,  were  so  acute  and  narrow, 
that  U  seemed  impossible  for  the  long  slender  boat  to 
turn  them  ;  but  the  rowers,  with  a  low  melodious  cry 
of  warning,  sent  it  skimming  on,  without  a  pause. 
Sometimes,  the  rowers  of  another  black  boat  like  our 
own,  echoed  the  cry,  and  slackening  their  speed  (as  I 
thought  we  did  ours)  would  come  flitting  past  us,  like  a 
dark  shadow.  Other  boats  of  the  same  sombre  hue,  were 
lying  moored,  I  thought,  to  painted  pillars,  near  to  dark 
mysterious  doors  that  opened  straight  upon  the  water. 
Some  of  these  were  empty ;  in  some,  the  rowers  lay 
asleep  ;  towards  one,  I  saw  some  figures  coming  down  a 

floomy  archway  from  the  interior  of  a  palace  :  gaily 
ressed,  and  attended  by  torch -bearers.  It  was  but  a 
glimpse  I  had  of  them  ;  for  a  bridge,  so  low  and  close 
upon  the  boat  that  it  seemed  ready  to  fall  down  and 
crush  us  :  one  of  the  many  bridges  that  perplexed  the 
Dream  :  blotted  them  out,  instantly.  On  we  went,  float- 
ing towards  the  heart  of  this  strange  place — with  water 
all  about  us  where  never  water  was  elsewhere — clusters 
of  houses,  churches,  heaps  of  stately  buildings  growing 
out  of  it  —  and,  everywhere,  the  same  extraordinary 
silence.  Presently,  we  shot  across  a  broad  and  open 
stream  ;  and  passing,  as  I  thought,  before  a  spacious 
paved  quay,  where  the  bright  lamps  with  which  it  was 
Illuminated  showed  lon^:  rows  of  arches  and  pillars,  of 
ponderous  construction  and  great  strength,  but  as  light 
to  the  eye  as  garlands  of  hoar-frost  or  gossamer — and 
where,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  people  walking — arrived 
at  a  flight  of  steps  leading  from  the  water  to  a  large 
mansion,  where,  having  passed  through  corridors  and 
galleries  innumerable,  I  lay  down  to  rest ;  listening  to 
the  black  boats  stealing  up  and  down  below  the  window 
on  the  rippling  water,  till  I  fell  asleep. 

The  glory  of  the  day  that  broke  upon  me  in  this 
Dream  ;  its  freshness,  motion,  buoyancy  ;  its  sparkles  of 
the  sun  in  water  ;  its  clear  blue  sky  and  rustling  air  ;  no 
waking  words  can  tell.  But,  from  my  window,  I  looked 
down  on  boats  and  barks  ;  on  masts,  sails,  cordage,  flags ; 
on  groups  of  busy^  sailors,  working  at  the  cargoes .  of 
these  vessels  ;  on  wide  quays,  strewn  with  bales,  casks, 
merchandise  of  many  kinds  ;  on  great  ships,  lying  near 
at  hand  in  stately  indolence  ;  on  islands,  crowned  with 
gorgeous  domes  and  turrets  ;  and  where  golden  crosses 
glittered  in  the  light,  atop  of  wondrous  churches  spring- 
ing from  the  sea  !  Going  down  upon  the  margin  of  the 
green  sea,  rolling  on  before  the  door,  and  filling  all  the 
streets,  I  came  upon  a  place  of  ,  such  surpassiag"  beauty, 
and  such  grandeur,  that  all  the  rest  was  p#«r  and  faded 
in  comparison  with  its  absorbing  lovel«i«£». 


204  WORKS  OF  CHARLUS  dickbns. 

It  was  a  great  Piazza,  as  I  thouglit ;  anchored,  like  all 
the  rest,  in  the  deep  ocean.  On  its  broad  bosom,  was  a 
Palace,  more  majestic  and  magnificent  in  its  old  age, 
than  all  the  buildings  of  the  earth,  in  the  high  prime 
and  fulness  of  their  youth.  Cloisters  and  galleries  :  90 
light,  they  might  have  been  the  work  of  fairy  hands  : 
so  strong  that  centuries  had  battered  them  in  vain  : 
wound  round  and  round  this  palace,  and  enfolded  it  with 
a  Cathedral,  gorgeous  in  the  wild  luxuriant  fancies  of 
the  East.  At  no  great  distance  from  its  porch,  a  lofty 
tower,  standing  by  itself,  and  rearing  its  proud  head, 
alone, -into  the  sky,  looked  out  upon  the  Adriatic  sea. 
Near  to  the  margin  of  the  stream,  were  two  ill-omened 
pillars  of  red  granite  ;  one  having  on  its  top,  a  figure 
with  a  sword  and  shield  ;  the  other,  a  winged  lion.  Not 
far  from  these  again,  a  second  tower  :  richest  of  the 
rich  in  all  its  decorations  :  even  here,  ♦where  all  was 
rich  :  sustained  aloft,  a  great  orb,  gleaming  with  gold 
and  deepest  blue  :  the  Twelve  Signs  painted  on  it,  and 
a  mimic  sun  revolving  in  its  course  around  them  :  while 
above,  two  bronze  giants  hammered  out  the  hours  upon 
a  sounding  bell.  An  oblong  square  of  lofty  houses  of 
the  whitest  stone,  surrounded  by  a  light  and  beautiful 
arcade,  foimed  part  of  this  enchanted  scene :  and,  here 
and  there,  gay  masts  for  flags  rose,  tapering,  from  the 
pavement  of  the  unsubstantial  ground. 

I  thought  I  entered  the  Cathedral,  and  went  in  and 
out  among  its  many  arches :  traversing  its  whole  extent. 
A  grand  and  dreamy  structure,  of  immense  proportions  ; 
golden  with  old  mosaics ;  redolent  of  perfumes ;  dim 
with  the  smoke  of  incense;  costly  in  treasure  of  precious 
stones  and  metals,  glittering  through  iron  bars  ;  holy 
with  the  bodies  of  deceased  saints  ;  rainbow-hued  with 
windows  of  stained  glass ;  dark  with  carved  woods  and 
coloured  marbles  ;  obscure  in  its  vast  heights,  and 
lengthened  distances  ;  shining  with  silver  lamps  and 
winking  lights  ;  unreal,  fantastic,  solemn,  inconceivable 
throughout.  I  thought  I  entered  the  old  palace  ;  pacing 
silent  galleries  and  council -chambers,  where  the  old 
rulers  of  this  mistress  of  the  waters  looked  sternly  out, 
in  pictures,  from  the  walls^  and  where  her  high-prowed 
galleys,  still  victorious  on  canvas,  fought  and  conquered 
as  of  old.  I  thought  I  wandered  through  its  halls  of 
state  and  triumph — bare  and  empty  now  ! — and  musing 
on  its  pride  and  might,  extinct  :  for  that  was  past ;  all 
past  :  heard  a  voice  say,  *'Some  tokens  of  its  ancient 
rule,  and  some  consoling  reasons  for  its  downfall,  may 
be  traced  here,  yet  ! " 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  led  on,  then,  into  some  jealous 
rooms,  communicating  with  a  prison  near  the  palace ; 
separated  from  it  by  a  lofty  bridge  crossing  a  narrow 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


205 


street  ;  and  called,  I  dreamed,  The  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

But  first  I  passed  two  jagged  slits  in  a  stone  wall  ;  the 
lions'  mouths — now  toothless — where,  in  the  distem- 
pered horror  of  my  sleep,  I  thought  denunciations  of 
innocent  men  to  the  old  wicked  Council,  had  been  drop- 
ped through,  many  a  time,  when  the  night  was  dark. 
So,  when  I  saw  the  council-room  feo  which  such  Drisor 
©rs  were  taken  for  examination,  and  the  door  by  which 
they  passed  out,  when  they  were  condemned — a  door 
that  never  closed  upon  a  man  with  life  and  hope  before 
him — my  heart  appeared  to  die  within  me. 

It  was  smitten  harder  though,  when,  torch  in  hand, 
I  descended  from  the  cheerful  day  into  two  ranges,  one 
below  another,  of  dismal,  awful,  horrible  stone  cells. 
They  were  quite  dark.  Each  had  a  loop-hole  in  its  massive 
wall,  where,  in  the  old  time,  every  day,  a  torch  was  placed 
— 1  dreamed — to  light  the  prisoner  within,  for  half  an 
ihour.  The  captives,  by  the  glimmering  of  these  brief 
I'ays,  had  scratched  and  cut  inscriptions  in  the  blackened 
Vaults.  I  saw  them.  For  their  labour  with  a  rusty 
nail's  point,  had  outlived  their  agony  and  them,  through 
many  generations. 

One  cell,  I  saw,  in  which  no  man  remained  for  more 
than  four-and-twenty  hours  ;  being  marked  for  dead  be- 
fore he  entered  it.  Hard  by,  another,  and  a  dismal  one, 
whereto,  at  midnight,  the  confessor  came — a  monk 
brown-robed,  and  hooded — ghastly  in  the  day,  and  free 
bright  air,  but  in  the  midnight  of  that  murky  prison, 
Hope's  extinguisher,  and  Murder's  herald.  I  had  my 
foot  upon  the  spot,  where,  at  the  same  dread  hour,  the 
shriven  prisoner  w^as  strangled  ;  and  struck  my  hand 
upon  the  guilty  door — low  browed  and  stealthy — through 
which  the  lumpish  sack  was  carried  out  into  a  boat, 
and  rowed  away,  and  drowned  where  it  was  death  to 
cast  a  net. 

Around  this  dungeon  stronghold,  and  above  some  part 
of  it  :  licking  the  rough  walls  without,  and  smearing 
them  with  damp  and  slime  within  :  stuffing  dank  weeds 
and  refuse  into  chinks  and  crevices,  as  if  the  very 
stones  and  bars  had  mouths  to  stop  :  furnishing  a 
smooth  road  for  the  removal  of  the  bodies  of  the  secret 
victims  of  the  state — a  road  so  ready  that  it  went  along 
with  them,  and  ran  before  them,  like  a  cruel  officer — 
flowed  the  same  water  that  filled  this  Dream  of  mine, 
and  made  it  seem  one,  even  at  the  time. 

Descending  from  the  palace  by  a  staircase,  called,  I 
thought,  the  Giant's — I  had  some  imaginary  recollection 
of  an  old  man  abdicating,  coming,  more  slowly  and  more 
feebly,  down  it,  when  he  heard  the  bell,  proclaiming  his 
successor — I  glided  off,  in  one  of  the  dark  boats,  until 
we  came  to  an  old  arsenal  guarded  by  four  marble  lions. 


9M  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


To  make  my  Dream  more  monstrous  and  unlikely,  one 
of  these  had  words  and  sentences  upon  its  body,  in- 
scribed there,  at  an  unknown  time,  and  in  an  unknown 
•language  ;  so  that  their  purport  was  a  mystery  to  all 
men. 

There  was  little  sound  of  hammers  in  this  place  for 
building  ships,  and  little  work  in  progress  ;  for  the 
greatness  of  the  city  was  no  more,  as  I  have  said.  In- 
deed, it  seemed  a  very  wreck  found  drifting  on  the  sea  ; 
a  strange  flag  hoisted  in  its  honourable  stations,  and 
strangers  standing  at  its  helm.  A  splendid  barge  in 
which  its  ancient  chief  had  gone  forth,  pompously,  at 
certain  periods,  to  wed  the  ocean,  lay  here,  1  thought, 
no  more  ;  but,  in  its  place,  there  was  a  tiny  model, 
made  from  recollection  like  the  city's  greatness  ;  and  it 
told  of  what  had  been  (so  are  the  strong  and  weak  con- 
founded in  the  dust)  almost  as  eloquently  as  the  mas- 
sive pillars,  arches,  roofs,  reared  to  overshadow  stately 
ships  that  had  no  other  shadow  now,  upon  the  water  or 
the  earth. 

An  armoury  was  there  yet.  Plundered  and  despoiled; 
but  an  armoury.  With  a  fierce  standard  taken  from  the 
Turks,  drooping  in  the  dull  air  of  its  cage.  Rich  suits 
of  mail  worn  by  great  warriors  were  hoarded  there  ; 
crossbows  and  bolts  ;  quivers  full  of  arrows  ;  spears  ; 
swords,  daggers,  maces,  shields,  and  heavy-headed  axes. 
Plates  of  wrought  steel  and  iron,  to  make  the  gallant 
liorse  a  monster  cased  in  metal  scales  ;  and  one  spring- 
weapon  (easy  to  be  carried  in  the  breast)  designed  to  do 
Its  office  noiselessly,  and  made  for  shooting  men  with 
poisoned  darts. 

One  press  or  case  I  saw,  full  of  accursed  instruments 
of  torture  :  horribly  contrived  to  cramp,  and  pinch,  and 
grind,  and  crush  men's  bones,  and  tear  and  twist  them 
with  the  torment  of  a  thousand«deaths.  Before  it,  were 
two  iron  helmets,  with  breast-pieces  :  made  to  close  up 
tight  and  smooth  upon  the  heads  of  living  sufferers ; 
and  fastened  on  to  each,  was  a  small  knob  or  anvil, 
where  the  directing  devil  could  repose  his  elbow  at  his 
ease,  and  listen,  near  the  walled-up  ear,  to  the  lamenta- 
tions and  confessions  of  the  wretch  within.  There  was 
that  grim  resemblance  in  them  to  the  human  shape— 
they  were  such  moulds  of  sweating  faces,  pained  and 
cramped — that  it  was  difficult  to  think  them  empty ; 
and  terrible  distortions  lingering  within  them,  seemed 
to  follow  me,  when,  taking  to  my  boat  again,  I  rode  off 
to  a  kind  of  garden  or  public  walk  in  the  sea,  where  there 
were  grass  and  trees.  But  I  forgot  them  when  I  stood 
upon  its  farthest  brink — I  stood  there,  in  my  dream-= 
and  looked,  along  the  ripple,  to  the  setting  sun  ;  before 
me,  in  the  sky  and  on  the  deep,  a  crimson  flush  ;  and 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


207 


behind  me  the  whole  city  resolving  into  streaks  of  red 
knd  purple,  on  the  water. 

In  the  luxurious  wonder  of  so  rare  a  dream,  I  took 
but  little  heed  of  time,  and  had  but  little  understanding 
of  its  flight.  But  there  were  days  and  nights  in  it ;  and 
when  the  sun  was  high,  and  when  the  rays  of  lamps 
were  crooked  in  the  running  water,  I  was  still  afloat,  I 
thought :  plashing  the  slippery  walls  and  houses  with 
fche  cleavings  of  the  tide,  as  my  black  boat,  borne  upon 
it,  skimmed  along  the  streets. 

Sometimes,  alighting  at  the  doors  of  churches  and  vast 
palaces,  I  wandered  on,  from  room  to  room,  from  aisle 
to  aisle,  through  labyrinths  of  rich  altars,  ancient  mon- 
uments ;  decayed  ai^artments  where  the  furniture,  half 
awful,  half  grotesque,  was  mouldering  away.  Pictures 
were  there,  replete  with  such  enduring  beauty  and 
expression  :  with  such  passion,  truth,  and  power  :  that 
they  seemed  so  many  young  and  fresh  realities  among  a 
host  of  spectres.  I  thought  these,  often  intermingled 
with  the  old  days  of  the  city  :  with  its  beauties,  ty* 
rants,  captains,  patriots,  merchants,  courtiers,  priests ; 
nay,  with  its  very  stones,  and  bricks,  and  public  places  ; 
all  of  which  lived  again,  about  me,  on  the  walls.  Then, 
coming  down  some  marble  staircase  where  the  water 
lapped  and  oozed  against  the  lower  steps,  I  passed  into 
my  boat  again,  and  went  on  in  my  dream. 

Floating  down  narrow  lanes,  where  carpenters,  at 
work  with  plane  and  chisel  in  their  shops,  tossed  the 
light  shaving  straight  upon  the  water,  v/here  it  lay  like 
weed,  or  ebbed  away  before  me  in  a  tangled  heap.  Past 
open  doors,  decayed  and  rotten  from  long  steeping  in  the 
wet,  through  which  some  scanty  patch  of  vine  shone 
green  and  bright,  making  unusual  shadows  on  the  pave- 
ment with  its  trembling  leaves.  Past  quays  and  ter- 
races, where  women,  gracefully  veiled,  were  passing 
and  repassing,  and  where  idlers  were  reclining  in  the 
sunshine,  on  flag-stones  and  on  flights  of  steps.  Past 
bridges,  where  there  were  idlers  too  :  loitering  and 
looking  over.  Below  stone  balconies,  erected  at  a  giddy 
height,  before  the  loftiest  windows  of  the  loftiest  houses. 
Past  plots  of  garden,  theatres,  shrines,  prodigious  piles 
of  architecture — Gothic — Saracenic — fanciful  with  all 
the  fancies  of  all  times  and  countries.  Past  buildings 
that  were  high,  and  low,  and  black,  and  white,  and 
straight,  and  crooked  ;  mean  and  grand,  crazy  and 
strong.  Twining  among  a  tangled  lot  of  boats  and 
barges,  and  shooting  out  at  last  into  a  Grand  Canal  1 
There,  in  the  errant  fancy  of  my  dream,  I  saw  old  Shy- 
lock  passing  to  and  fro  upon  a  bridge,  all  built  upon 
with  shops  and  humming  with  the  tongues  of  men  ;  a 
form  I  seemed  to  know  for  Desdemona's,  leaned  down 


208  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


through  a  latticed  blind  to  pluck  a  flower.  And,  in  the 
dream,  I  thought  that  Shakespeare's  spirit  was  abroad 
upon  the  water  somewhere  :  stealing  through  the  city. 

At  night,  when  two  votive  lamps  burnt  before  an  image' 
of  the  Virgin,  in  a  gallery  outsid-^  the  great  cathedral, 
near  the  roof,  I  fancied  that  the  great  piazza  of  the 
Winged  Lion  was  a  blaze  of  cheerful  light,  and  that  its 
whole  arcade  was  thronged  with  people  ;  while  crowds 
were  diverting  themselves  in  splendid  coffee-houses  open- 
ing from  it — which  were  never  shut,  I  thought,  but  open 
all  night  long.  When  the  bronze  giants  struck  the  hour 
of  midnight  on  the  bell,  I  thought  the  life  and  animation 
of  the  city  were  all  centred  here  ;  and  as  I  rowed 
away,  abreast  the  silent  quays,  I  only  saw  them  dotted, 
here  and  there,  with  sleeping  boatmen  wrapped  up  in 
their  cloaks,  and  lying  at  full  length  upon  the  stones. 

But,  close  about  the  quays  and  churches,  palaces  and 
prisons  :  sucking  at  their  walls,  and  welling  up  iut^ 
the  secret  places  of  the  town  :  crept  the  water  always. 
Noiseless  and  watchful :  coiled  round  and  round  it,  in 
its  many  folds,  like  an  old  serpent :  waiting  for  the  time, 
I  thought,  when  people  should  look  down  into  its  depths 
for  any  stone  of  the  old  city  that  had  claimed  to  be  its 
mistress. 

Thus  it  floated  me  away,  until  I  awoke  in  the  old  mar- 
ket-place at  Verona.  I  have,  many  and  many  a  time, 
thought,  since,  of  this  strange  Dream  upon  the  water  : 
half-wondering  if  it  lie  there  yet,  and  if  its  name  be 
Venice. 


8Y  VERONA,  MANTUA,  AND  MILAN,  ACROSS  THE 
PASS  OF  THE  SIMPLON  INTO  SWITZERLAND. 

I  HAD  been  half  afraid  to  go  to  Verona,  lest  it  should  at 
all  put  me  out  of  conceit  with  Romeo  and  Juliet.  But,  I 
was  no  sooner  come  into  the  old  Market-place,  than  the 
misgiving  vanished.  It  is  so  fanciful,  quaint,  and  pic- 
turesque a  place,  formed  by  such  an  extraordinary  and 
rich  variety  of  fantastic  buildings,  that  there  could  be 
nothing  better  at  the  core  of  even  this  romantic  town  : 
scene  of  one  of  the  most  romantic  and  beautiful  of  stories. 

It  was  natural  enough,  to  go  straight  from  the  Market- 
place, to  the  House  of  the  Capulets,  now  degenerated 
into  a  most  miserable  little  inn.  Noisy  vetturini  and 
muddy  market-carts  were  disputing  possession  of  the 
yard,  which  was  ankle-deep  in  dirt,  with  a  brood  of 
splashed  and  bespattered  geese  ;  and  there  was  a  grim- 
visaged  dog,  viciously  panting  in  a  doorway,  who  would 
certainly  have  had  Romeo  by  the  leg,  the  moment  he 
put  it  over  the  wall,  if  he  had  existed  and  been  at  large 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


209 


in  til  ose  times.  The  orchard  fell  into  other  hands,  and 
was  parted  off  many  years  ago  ;  but  there  used  to  be  one 
attached  to  the  house — or  at  all  events  there  may  have 
been, — and  the  hat  (Cappello)  the  ancient  cognizance 
of  the  family,  may  still  be  seen,  carved  in  stone,  over  the 
gateway  of  the  yard.  The  geese,  the  market- carts,  their 
drivers,  and  the  dog,  were  somewhat  in  the  way  of  the 
story,  it  must  be  confessed  ;  and  it  would  have  been 
pleasanter  to  have  found  the  house  empty,  and  to  have 
fceen  able  to  walk  through  the  disused  rooms.  But  the 
hat  was  unspeakably  comfortable  ;  and  the  place  where 
the  garden  used  to  be,  hardly  less  so.  Besides,  the 
house  is  a  distrustful,  jealous  looking  house  as  one 
would  desire  to  see,  though  of  a  very  moderate  size.  So 
I  was  quite  satisfied  with  it,  as  the  veritable  man- 
sion of  old  Capulet,  and  was  correspondingly  grateful 
in  my  acknowledgments  to  an  extremely  unsentimental 
tniddle-aged  lady,  the  Padrona  of  the  Hotel,  who  was 
lounging  on  the  threshold  looking  at  the  geese  ;  and  who 
at  least  resembled  the  Capulets  in  the  one  particular  of 
being  very  great  indeed  in  the    Family  "  way. 

From  Juliet's  home,  to  Juliet's  tomb,  is  a  transition  as 
natural  to  the  visitor,  as  to  fair  Juliet  herself,  or  to  the 
proudest  Juliet  that  ever  has  taught  the  torches  to  burn 
bright  in  any  time.  So,  I  went  off,  with  a  guide,  to  an 
old,  old  garden,  once  belonging  to  an  old,  old  convent, 
I  suppose  ;  and  being  admitted,  at  a  shattered  gate,  by 
a  bright-eyed  woman  who  was  washing  clothes,  went 
down  some  walks  where  fresh  plants  and  young  flowers 
were  prettily  growing  among  fragments*  of  old  wall, 
and  ivy-covered  mounds  ;  and  was  shown  a  little  tank, 
or  water  trough,  which  the  bright-eyed  woman- 
drying  her  arms  upon  her  'kerchief,  called,  **  La  tomba 
di  Giulietta  la  sfortunata."  With  the  best  disposition 
in  the  world  to  believe,  I  could  do  no  more  than  believe 
that  the  bright-eyed  woman  believed  ;  so  I  gave  her 
that  much  credit,  and  her  customary  fee  in  ready  money. 
Xt  was  a  pleasure  rather  than  a  disappointment,  that  Ju- 
liet's resting-place  was  forgotten.  However  consolatory 
it  may  have  been  to  Yorick's  Ghoet,  to  hear  the  feet  upon 
the  pavement  overhead,  and,  twenty  times  a  day,  the 
repetition  of  his  name,  it  is  better  for  Juliet  to  lie  out 
of  the  track  of  tourists,  and  to  have  no  visitoi*s  but  such 
as  come  to  graves  in  spring-rain,  and  sweet  air,  and 
sunshine. 

Pleasant  Verona  !  With  its  beautiful  old  palaces, 
and  charming  country  in  the  distance,  seen  from  terrace 
walks,  and  stately,  balustraded  galleries.  With  its 
Roman  gates,  still  spanning  the  fair  street,  and  casting,, 
on  the  sunlight  of  to-day,  the  shade  of  fifteen  hundred 
years  ago.  With-  its  marble-fitted  churches,  lofty, 
towers,  rich  architecture,  and  quaint  old  quiet  thorough* 


210  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fares,  wliere  shouts  of  Montagues  and  Capulets  once  re- 
s^)unded. 

And  made  Verona's  ancient  citizens 
Cast  by  their  grave,  beseeming  ornaments, 
To  wield  old  partizan&. 

With  its  fast-rusnmg  river,  picturesque  old  bridge,  greafe 
castle,  waving  cypresses,  and  prospect  so  delightful,  andi 
so  cheerful  !    Pleasant  Verona  ! 

In  the  midst  of  it,  in  the  Piazza  di  Brar— a  spirit  of  old 
time  among  the  familiar  realities  of  the  passing  hour — 
is  the  great  Roman  Amphitheatre.  So  well  preserved, 
and  carefully  maintained,  that  every  row  of  seats  is 
there,  unbroken.  Over  certain  of  the  arches,  the  old 
Roman  numerals  may  yet  be  seen  ;  and  there  are  cor. 
ridors,  and  staircases,  and  subterranean  passages  for 
beasts,  and  winding  ways,  above-ground  and  below,  as 
when  the  fierce  thousands  hurried  in  and  out,  intent  upon 
the  bloody  shows  of  the  arena.  Nestling  in  some  of  the 
shadows  and  hollow  places  of  the  walls,  now,  are  smiths 
with  their  forges,  and  a  few  small  dealers  of  one  kind  or 
other ;  and  there  are  green  weeds,  and  leaves,  and  grass, 
upon  the  parapet.    But  little  else  is  greatly  changed. 

When  I  had  traversed  all  about  it,  with  great  interest, 
and  had  gone  up  to  the  topmost  round  of  seats,  and  turn- 
ing from  the  lovely  panorama  closed  in  by  the  distant 
Alps,  looked  down  into  the  building,  it  seemed  to  lie 
before  me  like  the  inside  of  a  prodigious  hat  of  plaited 
straw,  with  an  enormously  broad  brim  and  a  shallow 
crown  :  the  plaits  being  represented  by  the  four-and- 
forty  rows  of  seats.  The  comparison  is  a  homely  and 
fantastic  one,  in  sober  remembrance  and  on  paper,  but 
it  was  irresistibly  suggested  at  the  moment,  nevertheless. 

An  equestrian  troop  had  been  there,  a  short  time  be- 
fore— the  same  troop,  I  dare  say,  that  appeared  to  the 
old  lady  in  the  church  at  Modena — and  had  scooped  out 
a  little  ring  at  one  end  of  the  arena  ;  where  their  per- 
formances had  taken  place,  and  where  the  marks  of  their 
horses'  feet  were  still  fr  sh.  I  could  not  but  picture  to 
myself,  a  handful  of  spectators  gathered  together  on  one 
or  two  of  the  old  stone  se^  ts,  and  a  spangled  Cavalier 
being  gallant,  or  a  Policinell  mnny,  with  the  grim  walls 
looking  on.  Above  all,  I  thoug"'  t  '  ow  strangely  thoso 
Roman  mutes  would  g«ze  upon  h  favourite  comic  scene 
of  the  travelling  English,  where  a  British  nobleman  (Lord 
John),  with  a  very  loose  stomach  :  dressed  in  a  blue 
tailed  coat  down  to  his  heels,  bright  yellow  breeches,  and 
a  white  hat ;  comes  abroad,  riding  double  on  a  rearing 
horse,  with  an  English  lady  (Lady  Betsey)  in  a  straw 
bonnet  and  green  veil,  and  a  red  spencer  ;  and  who  al- 
ways carries  a  gigantic  reticule,  and  a  put-up  parasol. 

1  walked  through  and  through  the  town  all  the  rest  of 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


211 


the  day,  and  could  have  walked  there  until  now,  1  think. 
In  one  place,  there  was  a  very  pretty  modern  theatre, 
where  they  had  just  performed  the  opera  (always  popular 
in  Verona)  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  In  another,  there  was 
a  collection,  under  a  colonnade,  of  Greek,  Roman,  and 
Etruscan  remains,  presided  over  hy  an  ancient  man  who 
might  have  been  an  Etruscan  relic  himself ;  for  he  was 
not  strong  enough  to  open  the  iron  gate,  when  he  had 
unlocked  it,  and  had  neither  voice  enough  to  be  audible 
when  he  described  the  curiosities,  nor  «ight  enough  to  see 
them  :  he  was  so  very  old.  In  another  place,  there  was 
a  gallery  of  pictures :  so  abominably  bad,  that  it  was 
quite  delightful  to  see  them  mouldering  away.  But  any- 
where :  in  the  churches,  among  the  palaces,  in  the 
streets,  on  the  bridge,  or  down  beside  the  river  i  it  was 
always  pleasant  Verona,  and  in  my  remembrance  always 
will  be. 

I  read  Romeo  and  Juliet  in  my  own  room  at  the  inn 
that  night — of  course  no  Englishman  had  ever  read  it 
there,  before — and  set  out  for  Mantua  next  day  at  sunrise, 
repeating  to  myself  (in  the  coupe  of  an  omnibus,  and 
next  to  the  conductor,  v/ho  was  reading  tne  Mysteries  of 
Paris) 

There  is  no  world  without  Verona's  walls, 
But  purgatory,  torture,  hell  itself. 
Hence-banished  is  banish'd  from  the  world, 
And  world's  exile  is  death  

which  reminded  me  that  Romeo  was  only  banished  five- 
Rnd-twenty  miles  after  all,  and  rather  disturbed  my  con- 
fidence  in  his  energy  and  boldness. 

Was  the  way  to  Mantua  as  beautiful,  in  his  time,  I 
wonder  !  Did  it  wind  through  pasture  land  as  green, 
bright  with  the  same  glancing  streams,  and  dotted  with 
fresh  clumps  of  graceful  trees  !  Those  purple  mountains 
lay  on  the  horizon,  then,  for  certain  ;  and  the  dresses  of 
these  peasant  girls,  who  wear  a  great,  knobbed,  silver 
pin  like  an  English  "  life-preserver  "  through  their  hair 
behind,  can  hardly  be  much  changed.  The  hopeful  feeL 
ing  of  so  bright  a  morning,  and  so  exquisite  a  sunrise, 
can  have  been  no  stranger,  even  to  an  exiled  lover's 
breast ;  and  Mantua  itself  must  have  broken  on  him  in 
the  prospect,  with  its  towers  and  walls,  and  water,  pretty 
much  as  on  a  common-place  and  matrimonial  omnibus. 
He  made  the  same  sharp  twists  and  turns,  perhaps,  over 
two  rumbling  drawbridges  ;  passed  through  tbe  like 
long,  covered,  wooden  bridge  ;  and  leaving  the  marshy 
water  behind,  approached  the  rusty  gate  of  stagnant 
Mantua. 

If  ever  a  man  were  suited  to  his  place  of  residence, 
and  his  place  of  resir'ence  to  him,  the  lean  Apothecary 
and  Mantua  came  together  in  a  perfect  fitness  of  thinffs. 


212  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


It  may  have  been  more  stirring  then,  perhaps.  If  so,  tiie 
Apothecary  was  a  man  in  advance  of  his  time,  and  knew 
what  Mantua  would  be  in  eighteen  hundred  and  forty- 
four.  He  fasted  much,  and  that  assisted  him  in  his 
foreknowledge. 

I  put  up  at  the  Hotel  of  the  Golden  Lion,  and  was  in 
my  own  room  arranging  plans  with  the  Brave  Courier, 
when  there  came  a  modjist  little  tap  at  the  door,  which 
opened  on  an  outer  gallery  surrounding  a  courtyard  ; 
and  an  intensely  shabby  little  man  looked  in,  to  inquire 
if  the  gentleman  would  have  a  Cicerone  to  show  the 
town.  His  face  was  so  very  wistful  and  anxious,  in  the 
half-opened  doorway,  and  there  was  so  much  poverty 
expressed  in  his  faded  suit  and  little  pinched  hat,  and 
in  the  threadbare  worsted  glove  with  which  he  held  it — 
not  expressed  the  less,  because  these  were  evidently  his 
genteel  clothes,  hastily  slipped  on — that  I  would  as  soon 
have  trodden  on  him  as  dismissed  him.  I  engaged  him 
on  the  instant,  and  he  stepped  in  directly. 

While  I  finished  the  discussion  in  which  t  was  engaged, 
he  stood,  beaming  by  bimself  in  a  corner,  making  a  feint 
of  brushing  my  hat  with  his  arm.  If  his  fee  had  been 
as  many  napoleons  as  it  was  francs,  there  could  not  have 
shot  over  the  twilight  of  his  shabbiness  such  a  gleam 
of  sun,  as  lighted  up  the  whole  man,  now  that  he  was 
hired. 

Well !  "  said  I,  when  I  was  ready,  "  shall  we  go  out 
now?" 

If  the  gentleman  pleases.  It  is  a  beautiful  day.  A 
little  fresh,  but  charming ;  altogether  charming.  The 
gentleman  will  allow  me  to  open  the  door.  This  is  the 
Inn  Yard.  The  courtyard  of  the  Golden  Lion  !  The 
gentleman  will  please  to  mind  his  footing  on  the  stairs." 
We  were  now  in  the  street. 

'  *  This  is  the  street  of  the  Golden  Lion.  This,  the 
outside  of  the  Golden  Lion.  The  interesting  window 
up  there,  on  the  first  Piano,  where  the  pane  of  glass  is 
broken,  is  the  window  of  the  gentleman's  chamber  I  " 

Having  viewed  all  these  remarkable  objects,  I  inquired 
if  there  were  much  to  see  in  Mantua. 

Well  !    Truly,  no.    Not  much  !    So,  so,"  he  said^ 
shrugging  his  shoulders  apologetically. 
Many  churches  ?  " 

"No.    Nearly  all  suppressed  by  the  French." 

"  Monasteries  or  convents  ?  " 

"  No.  The  French  again  !  Nearly  all  suppressed  by 
Mapoleon." 

Much  business  ?  " 

Very  little  business/^ 
"  Many  strangers  ?  " 
"Ah  Heaven  r* 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


213 


I  thought  he  would  have  fainted. 

**TheD,  when  we  have  seen  the  two  large  Churches 
yonder  what  shall  we  do  next  ?    said  I. 

Kf  looked  up  the  street,  and  down  the  street,  and 
rubbed  his  chin  timidly  ;  and  then  said,  glancing  in  my 
face  as  If  a  light  had  broken  on  his  mind,  yet  with  a 
humble  appeal  to  my  forbearance  tha.t  was  perfectly 
irresistible 

*  *  We  can  take  a  little  turn  about  the  town,  Signore  \ " 
(Si  pud  far  'un  piccolo  giro  della  citta.) 

It  was  impossible  to  be  anything  but  delighted  with 
the  proposal,  so  we  set  off  together  in  great  good-humour. 
In  the  relief  of  his  mind,  he  opened  his  heart,  and  gave 
up  as  much  of  Mantua  as  a  Cicerone  could. 

'*One  must  eat,"  he  said  ;  but,  bah  !  it  was  a  dull 
place,  without  doubt !  " 

He  made  as  much  as  possible  of  the  Basilica  of  Santa 
Andrea — a  noble  church — and  of  an  inclosed  portion  of 
the  pavement,  about  which  tapers  were  burning,  and  a 
few  people  kneeling,  and  under  which  is  said  to  be  pre- 
served the  Sangreal  of  the  old  Romances.  This  church 
disposed  of,  and  another  after  it  (the  cathedral  of  San 
Pietro),  we  went  to  the  Museum,  which  was  shut  up. 
*'  It  was  all  the  same,^'  he  said  ;  Bah  !  There  was  not 
much  inside  !  "  Then,  we  went  to  see  the  Piazza  del 
Diavolo,  built  by  the  Devil  (for  no  particular  purpose)  in 
a  single  night ;  then,  the  Piazza  Virgiliana  ;  then  the 
statue  of  Yiigil— OUT  Poet,  my  little  friend  said,  plucking 
up  a  spirit,  for  the  moment,  and  putting  his  hat  a  little 
on  one  side.  Then,  we  went  to  a  dismal  sort  of  farm- 
yard, by  which  a  picture-gallery  was  approached.  The 
moment  the  gate  of  this  retreat  was  opened,  some  five 
hundred  geese  came  waddling  round  us,  stretching  out 
theli  necks,  and  clamouring  in  the  most  hideous  manner, 
as  if  they  were  ejaculatik^  '*0h  !  here's  somebody  come 
to  see  the  Pictures  !  Don't  go  up  !  Don't  go  up  !  "  While 
we  went  up,  they  waited  very  quietly  about  the  door  in  a 
crowd,  cackling  to  one  another  occasionally,  in  a  subdued 
tone  ;  hut  the  instant  we  appeared  again,  their  necks  came 
out  like  telescopes  ;  and  setting  up  great  a  noise,  which 
meant,  I  have  no  doubt,  What,  you  would  go,  would 
you  !  What  do  you  think  of  it !  How  do  you  like  it  !  " 
they  attended  us  to  the  outer  gate,  and  cast  us  forth; 
derisively,  into  Mantua. 

The  geese  who  saved  the  Capitol,  were,  as  compared 
with  these.  Pork  to  the  learned  Pig.  What  a  gallery  it 
was  I  I  would  take  their  opinion  on  a  question  of  art, 
in  preference  to  the  discourses  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

Now  that  we  were  standing  in  the  street,  after  being 
thus  ignominiously  escorted  thither,  my  little  friend 
was  plainly  reduced  to  the    piccolo  giro,"  or  little  cir- 


214 


WOKKS  OF  CHAKLBS  DICKENS. 


cuit  of  the  town,  he  had  formerly  proposed.  But  my 
suggestion  that  we  should  visit  the  Palazzo  Te  (of  which 
I  had  heard  a  great  deal,  as  a  strange  wild  place)  im- 
parted new  life  to  him,  and  away  we  went. 

The  secret  of  the  length  of  Midas*  ears,  would  have 
feeen  more  extensively  known,  if  that  servant  of  his, 
who  whispered  it  to  the  reeds,  had  lived  in  Mantua, 
where  there  are  reeds  and  rushes  enough  to  have  pub- 
lished it  to  all  the  world.  The  Palazzo  Te  stands  in  a 
swamp,  among  this  sort  of  vegetation  ;  and  is,  indeed,  as 
singular  a  place  as  I  ever  saw. 

Not  for  its  dreariness,  though  it  is  very  dreary.  Not 
for  its  dampness,  though  it  is  very  damp.  Not  for  its 
desolate  condition,  though  it  is  as  desolate  and  neglected 
as  house  can  be.  But  chiefly  for  the  unaccountable 
nightmares  with  which  its  interior  has  been  decorated 
(among  other  subjects  of  more  delicate  execution),  by 
Giulio  Romano.  There  is  a  leering  Giant  over  a  certain 
chimney-piece,  and  there  are  dozens  of  Giants  (Titans 
warring  with  Jove)  on  the  walls  of  another  room,  so  in- 
conceivably ugly  and  grotesque,  that  it  is  marvellous  how 
any  man  can  have  imagined  such  creatures.  In  the  cham- 
ber in  which  they  abound,  these  monsters,  with  swol- 
len faces  and  cracked  cheeks,  and  .very  kind  of  distor- 
tion of  look  and  limb,  are  depicted  as  staggering  under 
the  weight  of  falling  buildings,  and  being  overwhelmed 
in  the  ruins  ;  upheaving  masses  of  rock,  and  burying 
themselves  beneath  ;  vainly  striving  to  sustain  the  pil- 
lars  of  heavy  roofs, that  topple  down  upon  their' heads  ; 
and,  in  a  word,  undergoing  and  doing  every  kind  of  mad 
and  demoniacal  destruction.  The  figures  are  immensely 
large,  and  exaggerated  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  uncouth- 
ness  ;  the  colouring  is  harsh  and  disagreeable  ;  and  the 
whole  effect  more  like  (I  should  imagine)  a  violent  rush 
of  blood  to  the  head  of  the  spectator,  than  any  real  pic- 
ture set  before  him  by  the  hand  of  an  artist.  This  apo- 
plectic performance  was  shown  by  a  sickly  booking 
woman,  whose  appearance  was  referable,  I  dare  say,  to 
the  bad  air  of  the  marshes  ;  but  it  was  diflBcult  to  help 
feeling  as  if  she  were  too  much  haunted  by  the  Giants, 
and  they  were  frightening  her  to  death,  all  alone  in  that 
exhausted  cistern  of  a  palace,  among  the  reeds  and 
rushes,  with  the  mists  hovering  about  outside,  and  stalk- 
ing round  and  round  it  continually. 

Our  walk  through  Mantua  showed  us,  in  almost  every 
street,  some  suppressed  church  :  now  used  for  a  ware- 
house, now  for  nothing  at  all  :  all  as  crazy  and  disman- 
tled as  they  could  be,  short  of  tumbling  down  bodily. 
The  marshy  town  was  so  intensely  dull  and  flat,  that  the 
dirt  upon  it  seemed  not  to  have  come  there  in  the  ordi- 
nary course,  but  to  have  settled  and  mantled  on  its  sur- 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


215 


face  as  on  standing  water.  And  yet  there  were  some 
business^dealings  going  on,  and  some  profits  realizing  ; 
for  there  were  arcades  full  of  Jews,  where  those  extra- 
ordinary people  were  fitting  outside  their  shops,  con- 
templating their  stores  of  stuffs,  and  woollens,  and 
bright  handkerchiefs,  and  trinkets  :  and  looking,  in  all 
respects,  as  wary  and  business-like,  as  their  brethren  in 
Houndsditcli,  London. 

Having  selected  a  Vetturino  from  among  the  neigh- 
bouring Christians,  who  agreed  to  carry  us  to  Milan  in 
two  days  and  a  half,  and  to  start,  next  morning,  as  soon 
as  the  gates  were  opened,  I  returned  to  the  Golden  Lion, 
and  dined  luxuriously  in  my  own  room,  in  a  narrow 
passage  between  two  bedsteads  :  confronted  by  a  smoky 
fire,  and  backed  up  by  a  chest  of  drawers.  At  six  o'clock 
next  morniDg,  we  were  jingling  in  the  dark  through  the 
wet  cold  mist  that  enshrouded  the  town  ;  and,  before 
noon,  the  driver  (a  native  of  Mantua,  and  sixty  years  of 
age  or  thereabouts),  began  to  ask  the  way  to  Milan  ! 
. ,  It  lay  through  Bozzolo  ;  formerly  a  little  republic,  and 
how  one  of  the  most  deserted  and  poverty-stricken  of 
towns :  where  the  landlord  of  the  miserable  inn  (God 
bless  him  !  it  was  his  weekly  custom),  was  distributing 
infinitesimal  coins  among  a  clamorous  herd  of  women 
and  children,  whose  rags  were  fluttering  in  the  wind  and 
i-ain  outside  his  door,  where  they  were  gathered  to  re- 
ceive his  charity.  It  lay  through  mist^  and  mud,  and  rain, 
and  vines  trained  low  upon  the  ground,  all  that  day  and 
the  next ;  the  first  sleeping-place  being  Cremona,  mem- 
orable for  its  dark  bricb  churches,  and  immensely  high 
tov/er,  the  Torrazzo — to  say  nothing  of  its  violins,  of 
which  it  certainly  produces  none  in  these  degenerate 
days  ;  and  the  second,  Lodi.  Then  we  went  on,  through 
more  mud,  mist,  and  rain,  and  marshy  ground  :  and 
through  such  a  fog,  as  Englishmen,  strong  in  the  faith 
of  their  own  grievances,  are  apt  to  believe  is  nowhere 
to  be  found  but  in  their  own  country,  until  we  entered 
the  paved  streets  of  Milan. 

The  fog  was  so  dense  here,  that  the  spire  of  the  far- 
famed  Cathedral  might  as  well  have  been  at  Bombay, 
for  anything  that  couid  be  seen  of  it  at  that  time.  But 
as  we  halted  to  refresh,  for  a  few  days  then,  and  return- 
ed to  Milan  again  next  summer,  I  had  ample  opportuni- 
ties of  seeing  the  glorious  structure  in  all  its  majesty 
and  beauty. 

All  Christian  homage  to  the  saint  who  lies  within  it ! 
There  are  many  good  and  true  saints  in  the  calendar,  but 
San  Carlo  Borromeo  has — if  I  may  quote  Mrs.  Primrose 
on  such  a  subject — **my  warm  heart."  A  charitable 
doctor  to  the  sick,  a  munificont  friend  to  the  poor,  an(i 
this,  not  in  any  spirit  of  blind  bigotry,  but  as  the  bold 


216  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


opponent  of  enormous  abuses  in  the  Romish  church,  I 
honour  his  memory.  I  honour  it  none  the  less,  because 
he  was  nearly  slain  by  a  priest,  suborned,  by  the  priests, 
to  murder  him  at  the  altar  :  in  acknowledgment  of  his 
endeavours  to  reform  a  false  and  hypocritical  brother- 
hood of  monks.  Heaven  shield  all  imitators  of  San  Carlo 
Borromeo  as  it  shielded  him  !  A  reforming  Pope  would 
need  a  little  shielding,  even  now. 

The  subterranean  chapel  in  which  the  body  of  San 
Carlo  Borromeo  is  preserved,  presents  as  striking  and  as 
ghastly  a  contrast,  perhaps,  as  any  place  can  show.  The 
tapers  which  are  lighted  down  there,  flash  and  gleam  on 
alti-rilievi  in  gold  and  silver,  delicately  wrought  by  skil- 
ful hands,  and  representing  the  principal  events  in  the 
life  of  the  saint.  Jewels,  and  precious  metals,  shine  and 
sparkle  on  every  side.  A  windlass  slowly  removes  the 
front  of  the  altar ;  and,  within  it,  in  a  gorgeous  shrine 
of  gold  and  silver  is  seen,  through  alabaster,  the  shriv- 
elled mummy  of  a  man ;  the  pontifical  robes  with 
which  it  is  adorned,  radiant  with  diamonds,  emeralds, 
rubies  :  every  costly  and  magnificent  gem.  The  shrunken 
heap  of  poor  earth  in  the  midst  of  this  great  glitter,  is 
more  pitiful  than  if  it  lay  upon  a  dunghill.  There  is  not 
a  ray  of  imprisoned  light  in  all  the  flash  and  fire  of 
jewels,  but  seems  to  mock  the  dusty  holes  where  eyes 
were,  once.  Every  thread  of  silk  in  the  rich  vestments 
seems  only  a  provision  from  the  worms  that  spin,  for  the 
behoof  of  worms  that  propagate  in  sepulchres. 

In  the  old  refectory  of  the  dilapidated  Convent  of 
Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie,  is  the  work  of  art,  perhaps 
better  known  than  any  other  in  the  world  :  the  Last 
Supper,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci — with  a  door  cut  through 
it  by  the  intelligent  Dominican  friars,  to  facilitate  their 
operations  at  dinner  time. 

I  am  not  mechanically  acquainted  with  the  art  of 
painting,  and  have  no  other  means  of  judging  of  a  pic- 
ture than  as  I  see  it  resembling  and  refining  upon  nature, 
and  presenting  graceful  combinations  of  forms  and  col- 
ours. I  am,  therefore,  no  authority  whatever,  in  refer- 
ence to  the  "touch"  of  this  or  that  master;  though  1 
know  very  well  (as  anybody  may,  vho  chooses  to  think 
about  the  matter)  that  few  very  great  masters  can  pos- 
sibly have  painted,  in  the  compass  of  their  lives,  one 
half  of  the  pictures  that  bear  their  names,  and  that  are 
recognized  by  many  aspirants  to  a  reputation  for  taste, 
as  undoubted  originals.  But  this,  by  the  way.  Of  the 
Last  Supper,  I  would  simply  observe,  that  in  its  beauti- 
ful composition  and  arrangement,  there  it  is,  at  Milan,  ? 
wonderful  picture  ;  and  that,  in  its  original  colouring, 
or  in  its  original  expression  of  any  single  face  or  feature, 
there  it  is  not.    Apart  from  the  damage  it  has  sustained 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


217 


from  damp,  decay,  or  neglect,  it  has  been  (as  Barry  shows) 
so  retouched  upon,  and  repainted,  and  that  so  clumsily, 
that  many  of  the  heads  are,  now,  positive  deformities, 
with  patches  of  paint  and  plaster  sticking  upon  them 
like  wens,  and  utterly  distorting  the  expression.  Where 
the  original  artist  set  that  impress  of  his  genius  on  a 
face,  which,  almost  in  a  line  or  touch,  separated  him 
from  meaner  painters  and  made  him  what  he  was,  suc- 
ceeding bunglers,  filling  up,  or  painting  across  seams  and 
cracks,  have  been  quite  unable  to  imitate  his  hand  ;  and 
putting  in  some  scowls,  or  frowns,  or  wrinkles,  of  their 
own,  have  blotched  and  spoiled  the  work.  This  is  so 
well  established  as  a  historical  fact,  that  I  should  not 
repeat  it,  at  the  risk  of  being  tedious,  but  for  having  ob- 
served an  English  gentleman  before  the  picture,  who 
was  at  great  pains  to  fall  into  what  I  may  describe  as 
mild  convulsions,  at  certain  minute  details  of  expression 
which  are  not  left  in  it.  Whereas,  it  would  be  comfort- 
able and  rational  for  travellers  and  critics  to  arrive  at  a 
general  understanding  that  it  cannot  fail  to  have  been  s, 
work  of  extraordinary  merit,  once  :  when,  with  so  few 
of  its  original  beauties  remaining,  the  grandeur  of  the 
general  design  is  yet  sufficient  to  sustain  it,  as  a  piece 
replete  with  interest  and  dignity. 

We  achieved  the  other  sights  of  Milan,  in  due  course, 
and  a  fine  city  it  is,  though  not  so  unmistakably  Italian  as 
to  possess  the  characteristic  qualities  of  many  towns  far 
less  important  in  themselves.  The  Corso,  where  the 
Milanese  gentry  ride  up  and  down  in  carriages,  and 
rather  than  not  do  which,  they  would  half  starve  them- 
selves at  home,  is  a  most  noble  public  promenade,  shad- 
ed by  long  avenues  of  trees.  In  the  splendid  theatre  of 
La  Scala,  there  was  a  ballet  of  action  performed  after 
the  opera,  under  the  title  of  Prometheus  :  in  the  begin- 
ning of  which,  some  hundred  or  two  of  men  and  women 
represented  our  mortal  race  before  the  refinements  of  the 
arts  and  sciences,  and  loves  and  grace?,  carae  on  earth  to 
soften  them.  I  never  saw  anything  more  effective. 
Generally  speaking,  the  pantomimic  action  of  the  ItaL 
ians  is  more  remarkable  for  its  sudden  and  impetuous 
character  than  for  its  delicate  expression ;  but,  in  this 
case,  the  drooping  monotony  :  the  weary,  mi'sSerable,  list, 
less,  moping  life  :  the  sordid  passions  and  desires  of 
human  creatures,  destitute  of  those  elevating  influences 
to  which  we  owe  so  much,  and  to  whose  promoters  we 
render  so  little  :  were  expressed  in  a  manner  really 
powerful  and  affecting.  I  should  have  thought  it  almost 
impossible  to  present  such  an  idea  so  strongly  on  the 
stage,  without  the  aid  of  speech. 

Milan  soon  lay  behind  us,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  mom- 


218  WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS, 


Ing  ;  and  before  the  golden  statue  on  the  summit  of  the 
cathedral  spire  was  lost  in  the  blue  sky,  the  Alps, 
stupendously  confused  in  lofty  peaks  and  ridges,  clouds 
and  snow,  were  towering  in  our  path. 

Still,  we  continued  to  advance  towards  them  until 
nightfall ;  and,  all  day  long,  the  mountain  tops  presented 
strangely  shifting  shapes,  as  the  road  displayed  them  in 
different  points  of  view.  The  beautiful  day  was  just 
declining,  when  we  came  upon  the  Lago  Maggiore,  with 
its  lovely  Islands.  For  however  fanciful  and  fantastic 
the  Isola  Bella  may  be,  and  is,  it  still  is  beautiful.  Any- 
thing springing  out  of  that  blue  water,  with  that  scenery 
around  it,  must  be. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night  when  we  got  to  Domo  d'Os- 
sola,  at  the  foot  of  the  Pass  of  the  Simplou.  But  as 
the  moon  was  shining  brightly,  and  there  was  not  a  cloud 
in  the  starlit  sky,  it  was  no  time  for  going  to  bed,  or 
going  anywhere  but  on.  So,  we  got  a  little  carriage, 
after  some  delay,  and  began  the  ascent. 

It  was  late  in  November  ;  and  the  snow  lying  four  or 
five  feet  thick  in  the  beaten  road  on  the  summit  (in  other 
parts  the  new  drift  was  already  deep),  the  air  was 
piercing  cold.  But,  the  serenity  of  the  night,  and  the 
grandeur  of  the  road,  with  its  impenetrable  shadows, 
and  deep  glooms,  and  its  sudden  turns  into  the  shining 
of  the  moon,  and  its  incessant  roar  of  falling  water, 
rendered  the  journey  more  and  more  sublime  at  every 
step. 

Soon  leaving  the  calm  Italian  villages  below  us,  sleep- 
ing in  the  moonlight,  the  road  began  to  wind  among 
dark  trees,  and  after  a  time  emerged  upon  a  barer  region, 
very  steep  and  toilsome,  where  the  moon  shone  bright 
and  high.  By  degrees,  the  roar  of  water  grew  louder ; 
and  the  stupendous  track,  after  crossing  the  torrent  by  a 
bridge,  struck  in  between  two  massive  perpendicular 
walls  of  rock  that  quite  shut  out  the  moonlight,  and 
only  left  a  few  stars  shining  in  the  narrow  strip  of  Sky 
above.  Then,  even  this  was  lost,  in  the  tbick  darkness  of 
a  cavern  in  the  rock,  through  which  the  v/ay  was  pierced  ; 
the  terrible  cataract  thundering  and  roaring  close  below 
it,  and  its  foam  and  spray  hanging,  in  a  mist,  about  the 
entrance.  Emerging  from  this  cave,  and  coming  again 
into  the  moonlight,  and  across  a  dizzy  bridge,  it  crept 
and  twisted  upward,  through  the  Gorge  of  Gondo,  savage 
and  grand  beyond  description,  with  smooth-fronted 
precipices,  rising  up  on  either  hand,  and  almost  meeting 
overhead.  Thus  we  went,  climbing  on  our  rugged  way, 
higher  and  higher  all  night,  without  a  moment's  weari- 
ness :  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  the  black  rocks,  the 
tremendous  heights  and  depths,  the  fields  of  smooth 


PICTUKBS  PKOM  ITALY. 


219 


snow  lying  in  tlie  clefts  and  hollows,  and  the  fierce  toi  • 
rents  thundering  headlong  down  the  deep  abyss. 

Towards  daybreak,  we  came  among  the  snow,  where 
h  keen  wind  was  blowing  fiercely.  Having,  with  some 
trouble,  awakened  the  inmates  of  a  wooden  house  in 
this  solitude  :  round  which  the  wind  was  howling  dis- 
mally, catching  up  the  snow  in  wreaths  and  hurling  it 
away  :  we  got  some  breakfast  in  a  room  built  of  rough 
timbers,  but  well  warmed  by  a  stove,  and  well  contrived 
(as  it  had  need  to  be)  for  keeping  out  the  bitter  storms. 
A  sledge  being  then  made  ready,  and  four  horses 
harnessed  to  it,  we  went,  ploughing,  through  the  snow. 
Still  upward,  but  now  in  the  cold  light  of  morning,  and 
with  the  great  white  desert  on  which  we  travelled,  plain 
and  clear. 

We  were  well  upon  the  summit  of  the  mountain  :  and 
had  before  us  the  rude  cross  of  wood,  denoting  its  great- 
est altitude  above  the  sea  :  when  the  light  of  the  rising 
sun,  struck,  all  at  once,  upon  the  waste  of  snow,  and 
turned  it  a  deep  red.  The  lonely  grandeur  of  the  scene, 
was  then  at  its  height. 

As  we  went  sledging  on,  there  came  out  of  the  Hospice 
founded  by  Napoleon,  a  group  of  Peasant  travellers,  with 
staves  and  knapsacks,  who  had  rested  there  last  night : 
attended  by  a  Monk  or  two,  their  hospitable  entertainers, 
trudging  slowly  forward  with  them,  for  company's  sake. 
It  was  pleasant  to  give  them  good  morning,  and  pretty, 
looking  back  a  long  way  after  them,  to  see  them  looking 
back  at  us,  and  hesitating  presently,  when  one  of  our 
horses  stumbled  and  fell,  whether  or  no  they  should 
return  and  help  us.  But  he  was  soon  up  again,  with  the 
assistance  of  a  rough  waggoner  whose  team  had  stuck 
fast  there  too  ;  and  when  we  had  helped  him  out  of  his 
difficulty,  in  return,  we  left  him  slowly  ploughing 
towards  them,  and  went  softly  and  swiftly  forward  on 
the  brink  of  a  steep  precipice,  among  the  mountain 
pines. 

Taking  to  our  wheels  again,  soon  afterwards,  we  be- 
gan rapidly  to  descend  ;  passing  under  everlasting  gla- 
ciers, by  means  of  arched  galleries,  hung  with  clusters 
of  dripping  icicles  ;  under  and  over  foaming  waterfalls  ; 
near  places  of  refuge,  and  galleries  of  shelter  against 
sudden  danger  ;  through  caverns  over  whose  arched 
roofs  the  avalanches  slide,  in  spring,  and  bury  them- 
selves in  the  unknown  gulf  beneath.  Down,  over  lofty 
bridges,  and  through  horrible  ravines  :  a  little  shifting 
speck  in  the  vast  desolation  of  ice  and  snow,  and  mon- 
strous granite  rocks  :  down  through  the  deep  Gorge  of 
the  Sal  tine,  and  deafened  by  the  torrent  plunging  madly 
down,  among  the  riven  blocks  of  rock,  into  the  level 
country,  far  below.    Gradually  down,  by  zig-zag  roads. 


220 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


lying  between  an  upward  and  a  downward  precipice,  into 
warmer  weather,  calmer  air,  and  softer  scenery,  until 
there  lay  between  us,  glittering  like  gold  or  silver  in  the 
thaw  and  sunshine,  the  metal-covered,  red,  green,  yel- 
low, domes  and  church-spires  of  a  Swiss  town. 

The  business  of  these  recollections  being  with  Italy, 
and  my  business,  consequently,  being  to  scamper  back 
thither  as  fast  as  possible,  I  will  not  recall  (though  I  am 
sorely  tempted)  how  the  Swiss  villages,  clustered  at  the 
feet  of  Giant  mountains,  looked  like  playthings  ;  or 
how  confusedly  the  houses  were  heaped  and  piled  to- 
gether ;  or  how  there  were  very  narrow  streets  to  shut 
the  howling  winds  out  in  the  winter  time  ;  and  broken 
bridges,  which  the  impetuous  torrents,  suddenly  re- 
leased in  spring,  had  swept  away.  Or  how  there  were 
peasant  women  here,  with  great  round  fur  caps :  looking, 
when  they  peeped  out  of  casements  and  only  their  heads 
were  seen,  like  a  population  of  Sword-bearers  to  the 
Lord  Mayor  of  London  ;  or  how  the  town  of  Vevay. 
lying  on  the  smooth  lake  of  Geneva,  was  beautiful  to 
see  ;  or  how  the  statue  of  Saint  Peter  in  the  street  at 
Fribourg  grasps  the  largest  key  that  ever  was  beheld  ^ 
or  how  Fribourg  is  illustrious  for  its  two  suspension 
bridges,  and  its  grand  cathedral  organ. 

Or  how,  between  that  town  and  Bale,  the  road  mean- 
dered among  thriving  villages  of  wooden  cottages,  with 
overhanging  thatched  roofs,  and  low  protruding  win- 
dows, glazed  with  small  round  panes  of  glass  like 
crown-pieces  ;  or  how,  in  every  little  Swiss  homestead, 
with  its  cart  or  waggon  carefully  stowed  away  beside 
the  house,  its  little  garden,  stock  of  poultry,  and  groups 
of  red-cheeked  children,  there  was  an  air  of  comfort, 
very  new  and  very  pleasant  after  Italy  :  or  how  the 
dresses  of  the  women  changed  again,  and  there  were  no 
more  sword-bearers  to  be  seen  ;  and  fair  white  stomach- 
ers, and  great  black,  fan-shaped,  gauzy-looking  caps, 
prevailed  instead. 

Or  how  the  country  by  the  Jura  mountains,  sprinkled 
with  snow,  and  lighted  by  the  moon,  and  musical  with 
falling  water,  was  delightful  ;  or  how,  below  the  win- 
dows of  the  great  hotel  of  the  Three  Kings  at  Bale,  the 
swollen  Rhine  ran  fast  and  green  ;  or  how,  at  Stras- 
bourg, it  was  quite  as  fast  but  not  as  green  :  and  was 
said  to  be  foggy  lower  down  :  and,  at  that  late  time  of 
the  year,  was  a  far  less  certain  means  of  progress,  than 
the  highway  road  to  Paris. 

Or  how,  Strasbourg  itself,  in  its  magnificent  old 
Gothic  Cathedral,  and  its  ancient  houses  with  their 
peaked  roofs  and  gables,  made  a  little  gallery  of  quaint 
and  interesting  views  ;  or  how  a  crowd  was  gathered  in- 
side the  cathedral  at  noon,  to  see  the  famous  mechanical 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


221 


clock  in  motion,  striking  twelve.  How,  when  it  struck 
twelve,  a  whole  army  of  puppets  went  through  many 
Ingenious  evolutions  ;  and  among  them,  a  huge  puppet 
cock,  perched  on  the  top,  crowed  twelve  times,  loud  and 
clear.  Or  how  it  was  wonderful  to  see  this  cock  at  great 
pains  to  clap  its  wings,  and  strain  its  throat  ;  but  obvi- 
ously  having  no  connection  whatever  with  its  own 
voice  ;  which  was  deep  within  the  clock,  a  long  way 
down. 

Or  how  the  road  to  Paris,  was  one  sea  of  mud,  and 
thence  to  the  coast,  a  little  better  for  a  hard  frost.  Or 
how  the  cliffs  of  Dover  were  a  pleasant  sight,  and  Eng- 
land was  so  wonderfully  neat — though  dark,  and  lacking 
colour  on  a  winter's  day,  it  must  be  conceded. 

Or  how,  a  few  days  afterwards,  it  was  . cool,  re-cross- 
ing the  channel,  with  ice  upon  the  decks,  and  snow  lying 
pretty  dee})  in  France.  Or  how  the  Malle  Poste  scram- 
bled through  the  snow,  headlong,  drawn  in  the  hilly  parts 
by  any  number  of  stout  horses  at  a  canter  ;  or  how  there 
were,  outside  the  Post-oflBce  Yard  in  Paris,  before  day- 
break, extraordinary  adventurers  in  heaps  of  rags,  grop- 
ing in  the  snowy  streets  with  little  rakes,  in  search  of 
odds  and  ends. 

Or  how,  between  Paris  and  Marseilles,  the  snow  being 
then  exceeding  deep,  a  thaw  came  on,  and  the  mail  waded 
rather  than  rolled  for  the  next  three  hundred  miles  or 
so  ;  breaking  springs  on  Sunday  nights,  and  putting  out 
its  two  passengers  to  warm  and  refresh  themselves  pend- 
ing the  repairs,  in  miserable  billiard -rooms,  where  hairy 
company,  collected  about  stoves,  were  playing  cards  ; 
the  cards  being  very  like  themselves — extremely  limp 
and  dirty. 

Or  how  there  was  detention  at  Marseilles  from  stress 
of  weather  ;  and  steamers  were  advertised  to  go,  which 
did  not  go  ;  or  how  the  good  steam-packet  Charlemagne 
at  length  put  out,  and  met  such  weather  that  now  she 
threatened  to  run  into  Toulon,  and  now  into  Nice,  but, 
the  wind  moderating,  did  neither,  but  ran  on  into  Genoa 
harbour  instead,  where  the  familiar  Bells  rang  sweetly 
in  my  ear.  Or  how- there  was  a  travelling  party  on  board, 
of  whom  one  member  was  very  ill  in  the  cabin  next  to 
mine,  and  being  ill  was  cross,  and  therefore  declined  to 
give  up  the  dictionary,  which  he  kept  under  his  pillow  : 
thereby  obliging  his  companions  to  come  down  to  him^ 
constantly  to  ask  what  was  the  Italian  for  a  lump  of 
sugar— a  glass  of  brandy  and  water — what's  o'clock? 
and  so  forth  :  which  he  always  insisted  on  looking  out, 
with  his  own  sea-sick  eyes,  declining  to  entrust  the  book 
to  any  man  alive. 

Like  Gruiviio,  I  might  have  told  you,  in  detail,  all  ^ » Js 
and  something  more — but  to  as  little  purpose — were  I 


222 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


not  deterred  by  the  remembrance  that  my  business  is  with 
Italy.  Therefore,  like  Grumio's  story,  it  *V  shall  die  in 
oblivion. " 


TO  ROME,  BY  PISA  AND  SIENA. 

There  is  nothing  in  Italy,  more  beautiful  to  me,  than 
the  coast-road  between  Genoa  and  Spezzia.  On  one  side  : 
sometimes  far  below,  sometimes  nearly  on  a  level  with 
the  road,  and  often  skirted  by  broken  rocks  of  many 
shapes :  there  is  the  free  blue  sea,  with  here  and  there 
a  picturesque  felucca  gliding  slowly  on  ;  on  the  other 
side  are  lofty  hills,  ravines  besprinkled  with  white  cot- 
tages, patches  of  dark  olive  woods,  country  churches 
with  their  light  open  towers,  and  country  houses  gaily 
painted.  On  every  bank  and  knoll  by  the  wayside,  the 
wild  cactus  and  aloe  flourish  in  exuberant  profusion  ;  and 
the  gardens  of  the  bright  villages  along  the  road,  are 
seen,  all  blushing  in  the  summer-time  with  clusters  of 
the  Belladonna,  and  are  fragrant  in  the  autumn  and  win- 
ter with  golden  oranges  and  lemons. 

Some  of  the  villages  are  inhabited,  almost  exclusively, 
by  fishermen  ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  see  their  great  boats 
hauled  up  on  the  beach,  making  little  patches  of  shade, 
where  they  lie  asleep,  or  where  the  women  and  children 
sit  romping  and  looking  out  to  sea,  while  they  mend 
their  nets  upon  the  shore.  There  is  one  town,  Camoglia, 
with  its  little  harbour  on  the  sea,  hundreds  of  feet  below 
the  road  :  w^here  families  of  mariners  live,  vv^ho,  time 
out  of  mind,  have  owned  coasting- vessels  in  that  place, 
and  have  traded  to  Spain  and  elsewhere.  Seen  from  the 
i'oad  above,  it  is  like  a  tiny  model  on  the  margin  of  tho 
dimpled  water,  shining  in  the  sun.  Descended  into,  by 
the  winding  mule-tracks,  it  is  a  perfect  miniature  of  a 
primitive  seafaring  town  ;  the  saltest,  roughest,  most 
piratical  little  place  that  ever  was  seen.  Great  rusty  iron 
rings  and  mooring-chains,  capstans,  and  fragments  of  old 
imasts  and  spars,  choke  up  the  way  ;  hardy  rough-weather 
boats,  and  seamen's  clothing,  flutter  in  the  little  harbour 
or  are  drawn  out  on  the  sunny  stones  to  dry ;  on  the 
parapet  of  the  rude  pier,  a  few  amphibious-looking  ieh 
lows  lie  asleep,  with  their  legs  dangling  over  the  wall, 
as  though  earth  or  water  were  all  one  to  them,  and  i! 
they  slipped  in,  they  would  float  away,  dozing  comfort, 
ably  among  the  fishes  ;  the  church  is  bright  with  troph- 
ies of  the  sea,  and  votive  olTerings,  in  commemoration  of 
escape  from  storm  and  shipwreck.  The  dv/ellings  not 
immediately  abutting  on  the  harbour  are  approached  by 
blind  low  archways,^and  by  crooked  steps,  as  if  in  dark, 
ness  and  in  difliiculty  of  access  they  should  be  like  holds 
of  ships,  or  inconvenient  cabins  under  water ;  and  every. 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


223 


where,  there  is  a  smell  of  fish,  and  seaweed,  and  old  rope. 

The  coast-road  whence  Camoglia  is  descried  so  far  be- 
low, is  famous,  in  the  warm  season,  especially  in  some 
parts  near  Genoa,  for  fire-flies.  Walking  there,  on  a 
dark  night,  I  have  seen  it  made  one  sparkling  firmament 
by  these  beautiful  insects  ;  so  that  the  distant  stars  were 
pale  against  the  flash  and  glitter  that  spangled  every 
olive  wood  and  hill-side,  and  pervaded  the  whole  air. 

It  was  not  in  such  a  season,  however,  that  we  traversed 
this  road  on  our  v/ay  to  Rome.  The  middle  of  January 
was  only  just  past,  and  it  was  very  gloomy  and  dark 
weather  ;  very  wet  besides.  In  crossing  the  fine  pass  of 
Bracco,  we  encountered  such  a  storm  of  mist  and  rain, 
that  we  travelled  in  a  cloud  the  whole  way.  There  might 
have  been  no  Mediterranean  in  the  world,  for  anything 
we  saw  of  it  there,  except  when  a  sudden  gust  of  wind, 
clearing  the  mist  before  it,  for  a  moment,  showed  the 
agitated  sea  at  a  great  depth  below,  lashing  the  distant 
rocks,  and  spouting  up  its  foam  furiously.  The  rain  was^ 
incessant ;  every  brook  and  torrent  was  greatly  swollen  ; 
and  such  a  deafening  leaping,  and  roaring,  and  thunder-.' 
ing  of  water,  I  never  heard  the  like  of  in  my  life. 

Hence,  when  we  came  to  Spezzia,  we  found  that  the 
Magra,  an  unbridged  river  on  the  road  high  to  Pisa,  was 
too  high  to  be  safely  crossed  in  the  Ferry  Boat,  and 
were  fain  to  wait  until  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day, 
when  it  had,  in  some  degree,  subsided.  Spezzia,  how- 
ever, is  a  good  place  to  tarry  at ;  by  reason,  firstly,  of 
its  beautiful  bay  ;  secondly,  of  its  ghostly  Inn  ;  thirdly, 
of  the  head-dress  of  the  women,  who  wear,  on  one  side 
of  their  head,  a  small  doll's  straw  hat,  stuck  on  to  the 
hair  ;  which  is  certainly  the  oddest  and  most  roguish 
head-gear  that  ever  was  invented. 

The  Magra  safely  crossed  in  the  Ferry  Boat — the  pas- 
sage is  not  by  any  means  agreeable,  when  the  current  is 
swollen  and  strong — we  arrived  at  Carrara,  within  a  few 
hours.  In  good  time  next  morning,  we  got  some  ponies, 
and  went  out  to  see  the  marble  quarries. 

There  are  four  or  five  great  glens,  running  up  into  a 
range  of  lofty  hills,  until  they  can  run  no  longer,  and 
are  stopped  by  being  abruptly  strangled  by  Nature. 
The  quarries,  or  caves"  as  they  call  them  there,  are  so 
many  openings,  high  up  in  the  hills,  on  either  side  of 
these  passes,  where  they  blast  and  excavate  for  marble  : 
which  may  turn  out  good  or  bad  :  may  make  a  man's 
fortune  very  quickly,  or  ruin  him  by  the  great  expense 
of  working  what  is  worth  nothing.  Some  of  these  caves 
were  opened  by  the  ancient  Romans,  and  remain  as  they 
''eft  them  to  this  hour.  Many  others  are  being  worked 
at  this  moment  ;  others  are  to  be  begun  to-morrow,  next 
week,  next  month  ;  others  are  unbought,  unthought  of  s 


224  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  marble  enough  for  more  ages  than  have  passed 
since  the  place  was  resorted  to,  lies  hidden  everywhere  : 
patiently  awaiting  its  time  of  discovery. 

As  you  toil  and  clamber  up  one  of  these  steep  gorges 
(having  left  your  pony  soddening  his  girths  in  water,  a 
mile  Dr  two  lower  down)  you  hear,  every  now  and  then, 
echoing  among  the  hills,  in  a  low  tone,  more  silent  than 
the  previous  silence,  a  melancholy  warning  bugle, — a 
signal  to  the  miners  to  withdraw.  Then,  there  is  a 
thundering,  and  echoing  from  hill  to  hill,  and  perhaps  a 
splashing  up  of  great  fragments  of  rock  into  the  air  ;  and 
on  you  toil  again  until  sonie  other  bugle  sounds,  in  a  new 
direction,  and  you  stop  directly,  lest  you  should  come 
within  the  range  of  the  new  explosion. 

There  were  numbers  of  men,  working  high  up  in  these 
hills — on  the  sides — clearing  away,  and  sending  down 
the  broken  masses  of  stone  and  earth,  to  make  way  for 
the  blocks  of  marble  that  have  been  discovered.  As 
these  came  rolling  down  from  unseen  hands  into  the  nar- 
row valley,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  deep  glen 
(just  the  same  sort  of  glen)  where  the  Roc  left  Sinbad 
the  Sailor  ;  and  where  the  merchants  from  the  heights 
Sibove,  flung  down  great  pieces  of  meat  for  the  diamonds 
to  stick  to.  There  were  no  eagles  here,  to  darken  the 
sun  in  their  swoop,  and  pounce  upon  them;  but  it  was  as 
wild  and  fierce  as  if  there  had  been  hundreds. 

But  the  road,  the  road  down  which  the  marble  comes, 
however  immense  the  blocks  !  The  genius  of  the  coun- 
try, and  the  spirit  of  its  institutions,  pave  that  road  : 
repair  it,  watch  it,  keep  it  going  !  Conceive  a  channel 
of  water  running  over  a.  rocky  bed,  beset  with  great 
heaps  of  stones  of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  winding  down 
the  middle  of  this  valley  ;  and  that  being  the  road — be- 
cause it  was  the  road  five  hundred  years  ago  I  Im- 
agine the  clumsy  carts  of  five  hundred  years  ago, 
being  used  to  this  hour,  and  drawn,  as  they  used  to  be, 
five  hundred  years  ago,  by  oxen,  whose  ancestors  were 
worn  to  death  five  hundred  years  ago,  as  their  unhappy 
descendants  are  now,  in  twelve  months,  by  the  suffering 
and  agony  of  this  cruel  work  !  Two  pair,  four  pair,  ten 
pair,  twenty  pair,  to  one  block,  according  to  its  size  ; 
down  it  must  come,  this  way.  In  their  struggling  from 
stone  to  stone,  with  their  enormous  loads  behind  them, 
they  die  frequently  upon  the  spot  ;  and  not  they  alone  ; 
for  their  passionate  drivers,  sometimes  tumbling  down  in 
their  energy,  are  crushed  to  death  beneath  the  wheels. 
But  it  was  good  five  hundred  years  ago,  and  it  must  be 
good  now  ;  and  a  railroad  down  one  of  th«SQ  steeps  (the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world)  would  be  flat  blasphemy. 

When  we  stood  aside,  to  see  one  of  these  cars  drawn 
by  only  a  pair  of  oxen  (for  it  had  but  one  small  block  of 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


225 


marble  on  it),  coming  down,  I  hailed,  in  my  heart,  the 
man  who  sat  upon  the  heavy  yoke,  to  keep  it  on  the 
neck  of  the  poor  beasts — and  who  faced  backward  :  not 
before  him — as  the  very  Devil  of  true  despotism.  He  had 
a  great  rod  in  his  hand,  with  an  iron  point ;  and  when 
they  could  plough  and  force  their  way  through  the  loose 
bed  of  the  torrent  no  longer,  and  came  to  a  stop,  he 
poked  it  into  their  bodies,  beat  it  on  their  heads,  screwed 
it  round  and  round  in  their  nostrils,  got  them  on  a  yard 
or  two,  in  the  madness  of  intense  pain;  repeated  all  these 
persuasions,  with  increased  intensity  of  purpose,  when 
they  stopped  again  ;  got  them  on  once  more  ;  forced  and 
goaded  them  to  an  abrupter  point  of  the  descent ;  and 
when  their  writhing  and  smarting,  and  the  weight  behind 
them,  bore  them  plunging  down  the  precipice  in  a  cloud 
of  scattered  water,  whirled  his  rod  above  his  head,  and 
gave  a  great  whoop  and  hallo,  as  if  he  had  achieved 
something,  and  had  no  idea  that  they  might  shake  him 
off,  and  blindly  mash  his  brains  upon  the  road,  in  the 
noon- tide  of  his  triumph. 

Standing  in  one  of  the  many  studii  of  Carrara,  that 
afternoon — for  it  is  a  great  workshop,  full  of  beautifully- 
finished  copies  in  marble,  of  almost  every  figure,  group, 
and  bust,  we  know — it  seemed,  at  first,  so  strange  to  me 
that  those  exquisite  shapes,  replete  with  grace,  and 
thought,  and  delicate  repose,  should  grow  out  of  all  this 
toil,  and  sweat,  and  torture  1  But  I  soon  found  a  parallel 
to  it,  and  an  explanation  of  it,  in  every  virtue  that 
springs  up  in  miserable  ground,  and  every  good  thing 
that  has  its  birth  in  sorrow  and  distress.  And,  looking 
out  of  the  sculptor's  great  window,  upon  the  marble 
mountains,  all  red  and  glowing  in  the  decline  of  day, 
but  s4;ern  and  solemn  to  the  last,  I  thought,  my  God  J 
how  many  quarries  of  human  hearts  and  souls,  capable 
of  far  more  beautiful  results,  are  left  shut  up  and 
mouldering  away :  while  pleasure-travellers  through 
life,  avert  their  faces,  as  they  pass,  and  shudder  at-  the 
gloom  and  ruggedness  that  conceal  them  ! 

The  then  reigning  Duke  of  Modena,  to  whom  this 
territory  in  part  belonged,  claimed  the  proud  distinction 
tsf  being  the  only  sovereign  in  Europe  who  had  not  re- 
cognised Louis-Philippe  as  King  of  the  French  !  He 
was  not  a  wag,  but  quite  in  earnest.  He  was  also  much 
opposed  to  railroads  ;  and  if  certain  lines  in  contem- 
plation by  other  potentates,  on  either  side  of  him,  had 
been  executed,  would  have  probably  enjoyed  the  satis- 
faction of  having  an  omnibus  plying  to  and  fro,  across 
his  not  very  vast  dominions,  to  forward  travellers  from 
one  terminus  to  another. 

Carrara,  shut  in  by  ^reat  hills,  is  very  picturesque 
HH  Vol.  18 


226 


WOKKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS 


and  bold.  Few  tourists  stay  tliere  ;  and  the  people  are 
bearly  all  connected,  in  one  way  or  other,  with  the 
working  of  marble.  There  are  also  villages  among  the 
caves,  where  the  workmen  live.  It  contains  a  beautiful 
little  Theatre,  newly-built ;  and  it  is  an  interesting 
custom  there,  to  form  the  chorus  of  labourers  in  the 
marble  quarries,  who  are  self-taught  and  sing  by  ear.  I 
heard  them  in  a  comic  opera,  and  in  an  act  of  Norma  ; " 
and  they  acquitted  themselves  very  well ;  unlike  the 
common  people  of  Italy  generally,  who  (with  some  ex- 
ceptions among  the  Neapolitans)  sing  vilely  out  of  tune, 
and  have  very  disagreeable  singing  voices. 

From  the  summit  of  a  lofty  hill  beyond  Carrara,  the 
first  view  of  the  fertile  plain  in  which  the  town  of  Pisa 
lies — with  Leghorn,  a  purple  spot  in  the  flat  distance — 
is  enchanting.  Nor  is  it  only  distance  that  lends  en- 
chantment to  the  view  ;  for  the  fruitful  country,  and 
rich  woods  of  olive-trees  through  which  the  road  sub- 
sequently passes,  render  it  delightful. 

The  moon  was  shining  when  we  approached  Pisa,  and 
for  a  long  time  we  could  see,  behind  the  wall,  the 
leaning  Tower,  all  awry  in  the  uncertain  light ;  the 
shadowy  original  of  the  old  pictures  in  school-books, 
setting  forth  The  Wonders  of  the  World."  Like  most 
things  connected  in  their  first  associations  with  school- 
books  and  school-times,  it  was  too  small.  I  felt  it 
keenly.  It  was  nothing  like  so  high  above  the  wall  as  I 
had  hoped.  It  was  another  of  the  many  deceptions 
practised  by  Mr.  Harris,  Bookseller,  at  the  corner  of  St. 
Paul's  Churchyard,  London.  His  Tower  was  a  fiction, 
but  this  was  reality— ^and,  by  comparison,  a  short  reality. 
Still,  it  looked  very  -well,  and,  very  strange,  and  wa^ 
quite  as  much  out  of  the  perpendicular  as  Harris  had 
represented  it  to  be.  The  quiet  air  of  Pisa  too  ;  the  big 
guardhouse  at  the  gate,  wdth  only  two  little  soldiers  in 
it ;  the  streets,  with  scarcely  any  show  of  people  in  them; 
and  the  Arno,  flowing  quaintly  through  the  centre  of  the 
town  ;  were  excellent.  So,  I  iDore  no  malice  in  my  heart 
against  Mr.  Harris  (remembering  his  good  intentions)  but 
forgave  him  before  dinner,  and  went  out,  full  of  confi- 
dence, to  see  the  Tower  next  morning. 

I  might  have  known  better  ;  but,  somehow,  I  had  ex- 
pected to  see  it,  casting  its  long  shadow  on  a  public 
street  where  people  came  and  went  all  day.  It  was  a 
surprise  to  me  to  find  it  in  a  grave  retired  place,  kpart 
from  the  general  resort,  and  carpeted  with  smooth  green 
turf.  But,  the  group  of  buildings,  clustered  on  and 
about  this  verdant  carpet :  comprising  the  Tower,  the 
Baptistery,  the  Cathedral,  and  the  Church  of  the  Campo 
Santo  ;  is  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  and  beautiful 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


227 


in  the  whole  world ;  and  from  being  clustered  there, 
together,  away  from  the  ordinary  transactions  and  de- 
tails of  the  town,  they  have  a  singularly  venerable  and 
impress!  ve  character.  It  is  the  architectural  essence  of 
a  rich  old  city,  with  all  its  common  life  aad  common 
habitations  pressed  out,  and  filtered  away. 

SiSMONDi  compares  the  Tower  to  the  usual  pictorial 
representations  in  children's  books  of  the  Tower  of 
Babel.  It  is  a  happy  simile,  and  conveys  a  better  idea 
of  the  building  than  chapters  of  laboured  description. , 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  grace  and  lightness  of  the  struc- 
ture ;  nothing  can  be  more  remarkable  than  its  general 
appearance.  In  the  course  of  the  ascent  to  the  top 
(which  is  by  an  easy  staircase),  the  inclination  is  not  very 
apparent ;  but,  at  the  summit,  it  becomes  so,  and  gives 
one  the  sensation  of  being  in  a  ship  that  has  heeled  over, 
through  the  action  of  an  ebb-tide.  The  effect  upon  the  low 
side,  so  to  speak— looking  over  from  the  gallery,  and  see- 
ing the  shaft  recede  to  its  base — is  very  startling  ;  and  I 
saw  a  nervous  traveller  hold  on  to  the  Tower  involun- 
tarily, after  glancing  down,  as  if  he  had  some  idea  oi 
propping  it  up.  The  view  within,  from  the  ground — 
looking  up,  as  through  a  slanted  tube — is  also  very 
curious.  It  certainly  inclines  as  much  as  the  most  san. 
guine  tourist  could  desire.  The  natural  impulse  of 
ninety-nine  people  out  of  a  hundred,  who  were  about  to 
recline  upon  the  grass  below  it,  to  rest,  and  contemplate 
the  adjacent  buildings,  would  probably  be,  not  to  take 
up  their  position  under  the  leaning  side  ;  it  is  so  very 
much  aslant. 

The  manifold  beauties  of  the  Cathedral  and  Baptistery 
need  no  recapitulation  from  me  ;  though  in  this  case,  as 
in  a  hundred  others,  I  find  it  difficult  to  separate  my 
own  delight  in  recalling  them,  from  your  weariness  in 
having  them  recalled.  There  is  a  picture  of  Saint  Agnes. 
Dy  Andrea  del  Sarto,  in  the  former,  and  there  are  a 
Variety  of  rich  columns  in  the  latter  that  tempt  me 
strongly. 

It  is,  I  hope,  no  breach  of  my  resolution  not  to  be 
tempted  into  elaborate  descriptions,  to  remember  the 
Oampo  Santo  ;  where  grass-grown  graves  are  dug  in 
earth  brought  more  than  six  hundred  years  ago,  from 
the  Holy  Land  ;  and  where  there  are,  surrounding  them, 
such  cloisters,  with  such  playing  lights  and  shadows 
falling  through  their  delicate  tracery  on  the  stone  pave- 
ment, as  surely  the  dullest  memory  could  never  forget. 
On  the  walls  of  this  solemn  and  lovely  place,  are  ancient 
frescoes,  very  much  obliterated  and  decayed,  but  very 
curious.  As  usually  happens  in  almost  any  collection  of 
paintings,  of  any  sort,  in  Italy,  where  there  are  many 
heads,  there  is,  in  one  of  them,  a  strildng  accidental 


228 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


likeness  of  T^"apoIeon.  At  one  time,  I  used  to  please  my 
fancy  with  the  speculation  whether  these  old  painters, 
at  their  work,  had  a  foreboding  knowledge  of  the  man 
who  would  one  day  arise  to  wreak  such  destruction  upon 
art :  whose  soldiers  would  make  targets  of  great  pictures, 
and  stable  their  horses  among  triumphs  of  architecture. 
But  the  same  Corsican  face  is  so  plentiful  in  some  parts 
of  Italy  at  this  day,  that  a  more  commonplace  solution 
of  the  coincidence  is  unavoidable. 

If  Pisa  be  the  seventh  wonder  of  the  world  in  right  of 
its  Tower,  it  may  claim  to  be,  at  least,  the  second  or 
third  in  right  of  its  beggars.  They  waylay  the  unhappy 
visitor  at  every  turn,  escort  him  to  every  door  he  enters 
at,  and  lie  in  wait  for  him,  with  strong  reinforcements, 
at  every  door  by  which  they  know  he  must  come  out. 
The  grating  of  the  portal  on  its  hinges  is  the  signal  for  a 
general  shout,  and  the  moment  he  appears,  he  is  hemmed 
in,  and  fallen  on,  by  heaps  of  rags  and  personal  distor- 
tioHS.  The  beggars  seem  to  embody  all  the  trade  and 
enterprise  of  Pisa.  Nothing  else  is  stirring,  but  warm 
air.  Going  through  the  streets,  the  fronts  of  the  sleepy 
houses  look  like  backs.  They  are  all  so  still  and  quiet, 
and  unlike  houses  with  people  in  them,  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  city  has  the  appearance  of  a  city  at  daybreak, 
or  during  a  general  siesta  of  the  population.  Or  it  is  yet 
more  like  those  backgrounds  of  houses  in  common  prints, 
or  old  engravings,  where  windows  and  doors  are  squarely 
indicated,  and  one  figure  (a  beggar  of  course)  is  seen 
walking  off  by  itself  into  illimitable  perspective. 

Not  so  Leghorn  (made  illhstrious  by  Smollett's  grave) 
which  is  a  thriving,  business-like,  matter-of-fact  place, 
where  idleness  is  shouldered  out  of  the  way  by  com- 
merce. The  regulations  observed  there,  in  reference  to 
trade  and  merchants,  are  very  liberal  and  free  ;  a..d  the 
town,  of  course,  benefits  by  them.  Leghorn  has  a  bad 
name  in  connection  with  stabbers,  and  with  some  justice 
it  must  be  allowed  ;  for,,  not  many  j^ears  ago,  there  was 
an  assassination  club  there,  the  members  of  which  bore 
no  ill-will  to  anybody  in  particular,  but  stabbed  people 
(quite  strangers  to  them)  in  the  streets  at  night,  for  the 
pleasure  and  excitement  of  the  recreation.  I  think  the 
president  of  this  amiable  society,  was  a  shoemaker.  He 
was  taken,  however,  and  the  club  was  broken  up.  It 
would,  probably,  have  disappeared  in  the  natural  course 
of  events,  before  the  railroad  between  Leghorn  and  Pisa, 
which  is  a  good  one,  and  has  already  begun  to  astonish 
Italy  with  a  precedent  of  punctuality,  order,  plain  deal- 
ing, and  improvement — the  most  dangerous  and  heretical 
astonisher  of  all.  There  must  have  been  a  slight  sensa- 
tion, as  of  earthquake,  surely,  in  the  Vatican,  when  the 
first  Italian  railroad  was  thrown  open. 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


229 


Returning  to  Pisa,  and  hiring  a  good-tempered  Vet- 
turino,  and  his  four  horses,  to  take  us  on  to  Rome,  we 
travelled  through  pleasant  Tuscan  villages  and  cheerful 
scenery  all  day.  The  roadside  crosses  in  this  part  of 
Italy  are  numerous  and  curious.  There  is  seldom  a  fig- 
ure on  the  cross,  though  there  is  sometimes  a  face  ;  but 
they  are  remarkable  for  being  garnished  with  little 
models  in  wood,  of  every  possible  object  that  can  be  con- 
nected with  the  Saviour's  death.  The  cock  that  crowed 
when  Peter  had  denied  his  Master  thrice,  is  usually 
perched  on  the  tip  top  ;  and  an  ornithological  phenomenon 
he  generally  is.  Under  him,  is  the  inscription.  Then, 
hung  on  to  the  cross-beam,  are  the  spear,  the  reed  with 
the  sponge  of  vinegar  and  water  at  the  end,  the  coat  with- 
out tjeam  for  which  the  soldiers  cast  lots,  the  dice-box 
with  which  they  threw  for  it,  the  hammer  that  drove  In 
the  nails,  the  pincers  that  pulled  them  out,  the  ladder 
which  w^as  set  against  the  cross,  the  crown  of  thorns,  the 
instrument  of  flagellation,  the  lantern  with  which  Mary 
went  to  the  tomb  (I  suppose),  and  the  sword  with  which 
Peter  smote  the  servant  of  the  high  priest, — a  perfect 
toy-shop  of  little  objects,  repeated  at  every  four  or  five 
miles,  all  along  the  highway. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  from  Pisa,  we  reach- 
ed the  beautiful  old  city  of  Siena.  There  ^vas  what  they 
called  a  Carnival,  in  progress  ;  but,  as  its  secret  lay  in  a 
score  or  two  of  melancholy  people  walking  up  and  down 
the  principal  street  in  common  toy-shop  masks,  and  be- 
ing more  melancholy,  if  possible,  than  the  same  sort  of 
people  in  England,  I  say  no  more  of  it.  We  went  off, 
betimes  next  morning,  to  see  the  Cathedral,  which  was 
wonderfully  picturesque  inside  and  out,  especially  the 
latter — also  the  market-place,  or  great  Piazza,  which  is 
a  large  square,  with  a  great  broken-nosed  fountain  in  it  : 
some  quaint  gothic  houses  :  and  a  high  square  brick 
tower ;  outside  the  top  of  which — a  curious  feature  in 
such  views  in  Italy — hangs  an  enormous  bell.  It  is  like 
a  bit  of  Venice,  without  the  water.  There  are  some  curi- 
ous old  Palazzi  in  the  town,  which  is  very  ancient ;  and 
without  having  (for  me)  the  interest  of  Verona  or  Genoa, 
it  is  very  dreamy  and  fantastic,  and  most  interesting. 

We  went  on  again,  as  so<)n  as  we  had  seen  these  things, 
and  going  over  a  rather  bleak  count. y  (there  had  been 
nothing  but  vines  until  now  :  mere  walking  sticks  at 
that  season  of  the  year),  stopped,  as  usual,  between  one 
and  two  hours  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  to  rest  the 
horses  ;  that  being  a  part  of  every  Vetturino  contract. 
We  then  went  on  again,  through  a  region  gradually  be- 
coming bleaker  and  wilder,  until  it  became  as  bare  and 
desolate  as  any  Scottish  moors.  Soon  after  dark,  we 
halted  for  the  night,  at  the  osteria  of  La  Seal  a    a  per- 


230 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fectly  lone  Louse,  where  the  family  were  sitting  round  a 
great  fire  in  the  kitchen,  raised  on  a  stone  platform  three 
or  four  feet  high,  and  big  enough  for  the  roasting  of  an 
ox.  On  the  upper,  and  only  other  floor  of  this  hotel, 
there  was  a  great  wild  rambling  sala,  with  one  very  lit- 
tle window  in  a  by-corner,  and  four  black  doors  opening 
into  four  black  bedrooms  in  various  directions.  To  say 
nothing  of  another  large  black  door,  opening  into  another 
large  black  sala,  with  the  staircase  coming  abruptly 
through  a  kind  of  trap-door  in  the  floor,  and  the  rafters 
of  the  roof  looming  above  :  a  suspicious  little  press 
skulking  in  one  obscure  corner  :  and  all  the  knives  in  the 
house  lying  about  in  various  directions.  The  fire-place 
was  of  the  purest  Italian  architecture,  so  that  it  was  per^. 
fectly  impossible  to  see  it  for  the  smoke.  The  waitress  was 
like  a  dramatic  brigand's  wife,  and  wore  the  same  style 
of  dress  upon  her  head.  The  dogs  barked  like  mad ; 
the  echoes  returned  the  compliments  bestowed  upon 
them  ;  there  was  not  another  house  within  twelve  miles ; 
and  things  had  a  dreary,  and  rather  a  cut-throat,  ap- 
pearance. 

They  were  not  improved  by  rumours  of  robbers  hav» 
ing  come  out,  strong  and  boldly,  within  a  few  nights  ; 
and  of  their  having  stepped  the  mail  very  near  that 
place.  They  were  known  to  have  waylaid  some  travel- 
lers not  long  before,  on  Mount  Vesuvius  itself,  and  were 
the  talk  at  all  the  roadside  inns.  As  they  were  no  busi- 
ness of  ours,  however  (for  w^e  had  very  little  with  us  to 
lose),  we  made  ourselves  merry  on  the  subject,  and  were 
very  soon  as  comfortable  as  need  be.  We  had  the  usual 
dinner  in  this  solitary  house  ;  and  a  very  good  dinner  it 
is,  when  you  are  used  to  it.  There  is  something  with  a 
vegetable  or  some  rice  in  it,  which  is  a  sort  of  short-hand 
or  arbitrary  character  for  soup,  and  which  tastes  very 
well,  when  you  have  flavoured  it  with  plenty  of  grated 
cheese,  lots  of  salt,  and  abundance  of  pepper.  There  is 
the  half  fowl  of  which  this  soup  has  been  made.  There 
is  a  stewed  pigeon,  with  the  gizzards  and  livers  of  him- 
self and  other  birds  stuck  all  round  him.  There  is  a  bit 
of  roast  beef,  the  size  of  a  small  French  roll.  There  are 
a  scrap  of  Parmesan  cheese,  and  five  little  vvitherec^ 
apples,  all  huddled  together  oi\  a  small  plate,  and  crowd- 
ing one  upon  the  other,  as  if  each  were  trying  to  save 
itself  from  the  chance  of  being  eaten.  Then  there  is 
colfee  ;  and  then  there  is  bed.  You  don't  mind  brick 
floors;  you  don't  mind  yawning  doors,  nor  banking  win 
dows;  you  don't  mind  your  own  horses  being  stabled 
under  the  bed:  and  so  close, that  every  time  a  horse  coughs 
or  sneezes,  he  wakes  you.  If  you  are  good-humoured  to 
the  people  about  you,  and  speak  pleasantly,  and  look 
cheerf  uljtake  my  word  for  it  you  may  be  well  entertained 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


231 


in  the  very  worst  Italian  Inn,  and  always  in  the  most 
obliging  manner,  and  may  go  from  one  end  of  the  country 
to  the  other  (despite  all  stories  to  the  contrary)  without 
any  great  trial  of  your  patience  anywhere.  Especially, 
when  you  get  such  wine  in  flasks,  as  the  Orvieto,  and 
ihe  Monte  Pulciano. 

It  was  a  bad  morning  when  we  left  this  place  ;  and 
we  went  for  twelve  milef^,  over  a  country  as  barren,  as 
atony,  and  as  wild,  as  Cornwall  in  England,  until  we 
came  to  Radicofani,  where  there  is  a  ghostly,  goblin  inn: 
once  a  hunting-seat,  belonging  to  the  Dukes  of  Tuscany. 
It  is  full  of  such  rambling  corridors,  and  gaunt  rooms, 
that  all  the  murdering  and  phantom  tales  that  ever  were 
written  might  have  originated  In  that  one  house.  There 
are  some  horrible  old  Palazzi  in  Genoa  :  one  in  particu- 
lar, not  unlike  it,  outside  :  but  there  is  a  windy,  creaks 
ing,  wormy,  rustling,  door-opening,  foot-on-staircase- 
falling  character  about  this  Radicofani  Hotel,  such  as  I 
never  saw,  anywhere  else.  The  town,  such  as  it  is, 
hangs  on  a  hill-side  above  the  house,  and  in  front  of  it. 
The  inhabitants  are  all  beggars  ;  and  as  soon  as  they  see 
a  carriage  coming,  they  swoop  down  upon  it,  like  so 
many  birds  of  prey. 

When  we  got  on  the  mountain  pass,  which  lies  beyond 
this  place,  the  wind  (as  they  had  forewarned  us  at  the 
inn)  was  so  terrific,  that  we  were  obliged  to  take  my 
other  half  out  of  the  carriage,  lest  she  should  be  blown 
over,  carriage  and  all,  and  to  hang  to  it,  on  the  windy 
side  (as  well  as  we  could  for  laughing),  to  prevent  its 
going.  Heaven  knows  where.  For  mere  force  of  wind, 
this  land-storm  might  have  competed  with  an  Atlantic 
gale,  and  had  a  reasonable  chance  of  coming  off  victori- 
ous. The  blast  came  sweeping  down  great  gullies  in  a 
range  of  mountains  on  the  right :  so  that  we  looked  with 
positive  awe  at  a  great  morass  on  the  left,  and  saw  that 
there  was  not  a  bush  or  twig  to  hold  by.  It  seemed  as 
if,  once  blown  from  our  feet,  we  must  be  swept  out  to 
Sea,  or  away  into  space.  There  was  snow,  and  hail,  and 
rain,  and  lightning,  and  thunder  ;  and  there  were  rolling 
mists,  travelling  with  incredible  velocity.  It  was  dark, 
awful,  and  solitary  to  the  last  degree ;  there  were 
mountains  above  mountains,  veiled  in  angry  clouds  ;  and 
there  was  such  a  wrathful,  rapid,  violent,  tumultuous 
hurry,  everywhere,  as  rendered  the  scene  unspeakably 
exciting  and  grand. 

It  was  a  relief  to  get  out  of  it,  notwithstanding  ;  and 
to  cross  even  the  dismal  dirty  Papal  Frontier,  After 
passing  through  two  little  towns  ;  in  one  of  which, 
Acquapendente,  there  was  also  a  Carnival"  in  prog- 
ress :  consisting  of  one  man  dressed  and  masked  as  a 
woman,  and  one  woman  dressed  and  masked  as  a  man. 


332 


WORKS  OF  CHARLiSS  DICKENS. 


walking  aokle-deep,  through  the  muddy  streets,  in  a 
very  melancholy  manner  :  we  came,  at  dusk,  within 
sight  of  the  Lake  of  Boisena,  on  whose  bank  there  is  a 
little  town  of  the  same  name,  much  celebrated  for  mala- 
ria. With  the  exception  of  this  poor  place,  there  is  not 
a  cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  lake,  or  near  it  (for  nobody 
dare  sleep  there)  ;  not  a  boat  upon  its  waters ;  not  a 
stick  or  stake  to  break  the  dismal  monotony  of  seven- 
and-twenty  watery  miles.  We  were  late  in  getting  in, 
the  roads  being  very  bad  from  heavy  rains ;  and,  after 
dark,  the  dulness  of  the  scene  was  quite  intolerable. 

We  entered  on  a  very  different,  and  a  finer  scene  of 
desolation,  next  night,  at  sunset.  We  had  passed 
through  Montefiaschone  (famous  for  its  wine)  and  Vi- 
terbo  (for  its  fountains) :  and  after  climbing  up  a  long  hill 
of  eight  or  ten  miles  extent,  came  suddenly  upon  the  mar- 
gin of  a  solitary  lake  :  in  one  part  very  beautiful,  with 
a  luxuriant  wood  ;  in  another,  very  barren,  and  shut  in 
by  bleak  volcanic  hills.  Where  this  lake  flows,  there 
stood,  of  old,  a  city.  It  was  swallowed  up  one  day  ;  and 
in  its  stead,  this  water  rose.  There  are  ancient  tradi- 
tions (common  to  many  parts  of  the  world)  of  the  ruined 
city  having  been  seen  below,  when  the  water  was  clear  ; 
but  however  that  may  be,  from  this  spot  of  earth  it  van- 
ished. The  ground  came  bubbling  up  above  it  ;  and  the 
water  too  ;  and  here  they  stand,  like  ghosts  on  whom 
the  other  world  closed  suddenly,  and  who  have  no  means 
of  getting  back  again.  They  seem  to  be  waiting  the 
course  of  ages,  for  the  next  earthquake  in  that  place ; 
when  they  will  plunge  below  the  ground,  at  its  first 
yawning,  and  be  seen  no  more.  The  unhappy  city, 
below,  is  not  more  lost  and  dreary,  than  these  fire-char- 
red hills  and  the  stagnant  water,  above.  The  red  sun 
looked  strangely  on  them,  as  with  the  knowledge  that 
they  were  made  for  caverns  and  darkness  ;  and  the  mel- 
ancholy  water  oozed  and  sucked  the  mud,  and  crept  qui° 
etly  among  the  marshy  grass  and  reeds,  as  if  the  over° 
throw  of  all  the  ancient  towers  and  house-tops,  and  the 
death  of  all  the  ancient  people  born  and  bred  there,  were 
yet  heavy  on  its  conscience. 

A  short  ride  from  this  lake,  brought  us  to  Ronciglione; 
a  little  town  like  a  large  pig-sty,  where  we  passed  the 
night.  Next  morning  at  seven  o'clock,  we  started  for 
Rome. 

As  soon  as  we  were  out  of  the  pig-sty,  we  entered  on 
the  Campagna  Roman  a ;  an  undulating  flat  (as  you  know), 
where  few  people  can  live  ;  and  where,  for  miles  and 
miles,  tnere  is  nothing  to  relieve  the  terrible  monotony 
and  gloom.  Of  all  kinds  of  country  that  could,  by  pos- 
sibility, lie  outside  the  gates  of  Rome,  this  is  the 
aptest  and  fittest  burial-ground  for  the  Dead  City.  So 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


233 


sad,  so  quiet,  so  sullen  ;  so  secret  in  its  covering  up  of 
great  masses  of  ruin,  and  hiding  them  ;  so  like  the  waste 
places  into  which  the  men  possessed  with  devils,  used  to 
go  and  howl,  and  rend  themselves,  in  the  old  days  of 
Jerusalem.  We  had  to  traverse  thirty  miles  of  this 
Campagna  ;  and  for  two-and-twenty  we  went  on  and  on, 
seeing  nothing  but  now  and  then  a  lonely  house,  or  a 
villanous-looking  shepherd :  with  matted  hair  all  over 
his  face,  and  himself  wrapped  to  the  chin  in  a  frowsy 
brown  mantle,  tending  his  sheep.  At  the  end  of  that 
distance,  we  stopped  to  refresh  the  horses,  and  to  get 
some  lunch,  in  a  common  malaria-shaken,  despondent 
little  public-house,  whose  every  inch  of  wall  and  beam, 
inside,  was  (according  to  custom)  painted  and  decorated 
in  a  way  so  miserable  that  every  room  looked  like  the 
wrong  side  of  another  room,  and,  with  its  wretched 
imitation  of  drapery,  and  lop-sided  little  daubs  of  lyreSp 
seemed  to  have  been  plundered  from  behind  the  scenes 
of  some  travelling  circus. 

When  we  were  fairly  off  again,  we  began,  in  a  perfect 
fever,  to  strain  our  eyes  for  Rome  ;  and  when,  after 
another  mile  or  two,  the  eternal  city  appeared,  at  length, 
in  the  distance  ;  it  looked  like — I  am  half  afraid  to  write 
the  word— like  LONDON  I  ! !  There  it  lay,  under  a 
thick  cloud,  with  innumerable  towers,  and  steeples,  and 
roofs  of  houses,  rising  up  into  the  sky,  and  high  above 
them  all,  one  Dome.  I  swear,  that  keenly  as  I  felt  the 
seeming  absurdity  of  tlie  comparison,  it  was  so  like 
London,  at  that  distance,  that  if  you  could  have  shown 
it  me,  in  a  glass,  I  should  have  taken  it  for  nothing  else 


ROME. 

We  entered  the  Eternal  City,  at  about  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  on  the  thirtieth  of  January,  by  the  Porta 
del  Popolo,  and  came  immediately — it  was  a  dark  muddy 
day,  and  there  had  been  heavy  rain — on  the  skirts  of  the 
Carnival.  We  did  not,  then,  know  that  we  were  only 
looking  at  the  fag  end  of  the  masks,  who  were  driving 
slowly  round  and  round  the  Piazza,  until  they  could  find 
a  promising  opportunity  for  falling  into  the  stream  of 
carriages,  and  getting,  in  good  time,  into  the  thick  of 
the  festivity  ;  and  coming  among  them  so  abruptly,  all 
travel-stained  and  weary,  was  not  coming  very  well  pre» 
pared  to  enjoy  the  scene. 

We  had  crossed  the  Tiber  by  the  Ponte  Molle,  two  or 
three  miles  before.  It  had  looked  as  yellow  as  it  ought 
to  look,  and  hurrying  on  between  its  worn-away  and 
miry  banks,  had  a  promising  aspect  of  desolation  and 


234 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ruin,  llie  masquerade  dresses  on  tlie  fringe  of  the 
Carnival,  did  great  violence  to  this  promise.  There 
were  no  great  ruins,  no  solemn  tokens  of  antiquity,  to  be 
Seen  ; — they  all  lie  on  the  other  side  of  the  city.  There 
seemed  to  be  long  streets  of  commonplace  shops  and 
houses,  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  any  European  town ; 
there  were  busy  people,  equipages,  ordinary  walkers  to 
a.nd  fro  ;  a  multitude  of  chattering  strangers.  It  was  no 
more  my  Rome  :  the  Rome  of  anybody^s  fancy,  man  or 
boy  :  degraded  and  fallen  and  lying  asleep  in  the  sun 
iimong  a  heap  of  ruins  :  than  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
in  Paris  is.  A  cloudy  sky,  a  dull  cold  rain,  and  muddy 
Streets,  I  w^as  prepared  for,  but  not  for  this  ;  and  I  con. 
fess  to  having  gone  to  bed,  that  night,  in  a  very  indif, 
ferent  humour,  and  with  a  very  considerably  quenched 
enthusiasm. 

Immediately  on  going  out  next  day,  we  hurried  off 
to  St.  Peter's.  It  looked  immense  in  the  distance,  but 
distinctly  and  decidedly  small,  by  comparison,  on  a  near 
approach.  The  beauty  of  the  Piazza  in  which  it  stands, 
with  its  clusters  of  exquisite  columns,  and  its  gushing 
fountains, — so  fresh,  so  broad,  and  free,  and  beautiful, 
— nothing  can  exaggerate.  The  first  burst  of  the  inte* 
rior,  in  all  its  expansive  majesty  and  glory  ;  and,  most  of 
all,  the  looking  up  into  the  dome  :  is  a  sensation  never 
to  be  forgotten.  But  there  were  preparations  for  a  Festa ; 
the  pillars  of  stately  marble  were  swathed  in  some  im- 
pertinent frippery  of  red  and  yellow  ;  the  altar,  and 
entrance  to  the  subterranean  chapel :  which  is  before  it : 
in  the  centre  of  the  church  :  were  like  a  goldsmith's 
shop,  or  one  of  the  opening  scenes  in  a  very  lavish  panto- 
mime. And  though  I  had  as  high  a  sense  of  the  beauty 
of  the  building  (I  hope)  as  it  is  possible  to  entertain,  I 
felt  no  very  strong  emotion.  I  have  been  infinitely  more 
affected  in  many  English  Cathedrals  when  the  organ  has 
been  playing,  and  in  many  English  country  churches 
when  the  congregation  have  been  singing.  I  had  a 
much  greater  sense  of  mystery  and  wonder,  in  the  cathe° 
dral  of  San  Mark  at  Venice. 

When  we  came  out  of  the  church  again  (we  stood 
nearly  an  hour  staring  up  into  the  dome :  and  would  not 
have  *'gone  over"  the  Cathedral  then,  for  any  money), 
we  said  to  the  coachman,  ''Go  to  the  Coliseum."  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  we  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  we 
went  in. 

It  is  no  fiction,  but  plain,  sober,  honest  Truth,  to  say  i 
so  suggestive  and  distinct  is  it  at  this  hour :  that,  for  a 
moment — actually  in  passing  in — they  who  will,  may 
have  the  whole  great  pile  before  them,  as  it  used  to  be, 
with  thousands  of  eager  faces  staring  down  into  the 
arena,  and  such  a  whirl  of  strife,  and  blood,  and  dust. 


PICTTJRES  FROM  ITALY. 


285 


going  on  tliere,  as  no  language  can  describe.  Its  soli- 
tude, its  awful  beauty,  and  its  utter  desoiation,  strike 
upon  tlie  stranger  the  next  moment,  like  a  softened  sor- 
row ;  and  never  in  his  life,  perhaps,  will  he  be  so  moved 
and  overcome  by  any  sight,  not  immediately  connected 
with  his  own  affections  and  afflictions. 

To  see  it  crumbling  there,  an  inch  a  year ;  its  walls 
and  arches  overgrown  with  green  ;  its  corridors  open  to 
the  day  ;  the  long  grass  growing  in  its  porches  ;  young 
trees  of  yesterday,  springing  up  on  its  ragged  parapets, 
and  bearing  fruit ;  chance  produce  of  the  seeds  dropped 
tliere  by  the  birds  who  build  their  nests  within  its 
chinks  and  crannies  ;  to  see  its  Pit  of  Fight  filled  up 
with  earth,  and  the  peaceful  Cross  planted  in  the  centre  ; 
to  climb  into  its  upper  halls,  and  look  down  on  ruin, 
ruin,  ruin,  all  about  it ;  the  triumphal  arches  of  Con- 
fetantine,  Septimus  Severus,  and  Titus ;  the  Roman 
Forum  ;  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars  ;  the  temples  of  the 
old  religion,  fallen  down  and  gone  ;  it  is  to  see  the  ghost 
of  old  Rome,  wicked,  wonderful  old  city,  haunting  the 
very  ground  on  which  its  people  trod.  It  is  the  most 
impressive,  the  most  stately,  the  most  solemn,  grand, 
majestic,  and  mournful  sight  conceivable.  Never,  in  its 
bloodiest  crime,  can  the  sight  of  the  gigantic  Coliseum, 
full  and  running  over  with  the  lustiest  life,  have  moved- 
one  heart,  as  it  must  move  all  who  look  upon  it  now,  a 
ruin.   God  be  thanked  :  a  ruin  I 

As  it  tops  the  other  ruins :  standing  there,  a  mountain 
among  graves  :  so  do  its  ancient  influences  outlive  all 
other  remnants  of  the  old  mythology  and  old  butchery 
of  Rome,  in  the  nature  of  the  fierce  and  cruel  Roman 
people.  The  Italian  face  changes  as  the  visitor  ap- 
proaches the  city  ;  its  beauty  becomes  devilish  ;  and 
there  is  scarcely  one  countenance  in  a  hundred,  among 
the  common  people  in  the  streets,  that  would  not  be  at 
home  and  happy  in  a  renovated  Coliseum  to-morrow. 

Here  was  Rome  indeed  at  last ;  and  such  a  Rome  as 
no  one  can  imagine  in  its  full  and  awful  grandeur  !.  We 
wandered  out  upon  the  Appian  Way,  and  then  went  on, 
through  miles  of  ruined  tombs  and  broken  walls,  with 
here  and  there  a  desolate  and  uninhabited  house  :  past 
the  Circus  of  Romulus,  w^here  the  course  of  the  chariots, 
the  stations  of  the  judges,  competitors,  and  spectators, 
are  yet  as  plainly  to  be  seen  as  in  old  time  :  past  the 
tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella  :  past  all  inclogure,  hedge,  or 
stake,  wall  or- fence:  aw^ay  upon  the  open  Campagna, 
where  on  that  side  of  Rome,  nothing  is  to  be  beheld  but 
Ruin.  Except  where  the  distant  Apennines  bound  the 
view  upon  the  left,  the  whole  wide  prospect  is  one  field 
of  ruin.  Broken  aqueducts,  left  in  the  most  picturesque 
and  beautiful  clusters  of  arches  ;  broken  temples  •  broken 


286 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENa 


fcombs.  A  desert  of  decay,  sombre  and  desolate  beyond 
all  expression  ;  and  with  a  history  in  every  stone  that 
strows  the  ground. 

On  Sunday,  the  Pope  assisted  in  the  performance  of 
High  Mass  at  St.  Peter's.  The  effect  of  the  Cathedral 
on  my  mind,  on  that  second  visit,  was  exactly  what  it 
was  at  first,  and  what  it  remains  after  many  visits.  It 
is  not  religiously  impressive  ci  affecting.  It  is  an  im- 
mense edifice,  with  no  one  point  for  the  mind  to  rest 
upon  ;  and  it  tires  itself  with  wandering  round  and  round. 
The  very  purpose  of  the  place,  is  not  expressed  in  any- 
thing you  see  there,  unless  you  examine  its  details — 
and  all  examination  of  details  is  incompatible  with  the 
place  itself.  It  might  be  a  Pantheon,  or  a  Senate  House, 
or  a  great  architectural  trophy,  having  no  other  object 
than  an  architectural  triumph.  There  is  a  black  statue 
of  St.  Peter,  to  be  sure,  under  a  red  canopy  ;  v/hich  is 
larger  than  life,  and  which  is  constantly  having  its  great 
toe  kissed  by  good  Catholics.  You  cannot  help  seeing 
that :  it  is  so  very  prominent  and  popular.  But  it  does 
not  heighten  the  effect  of  the  temple,  as  a  work  of  art ; 
and  it  is  not  expressive — to  me  at  least — of  its  high 
purpose. 

A  large  space  behind  the  altar,  was  fitted  up  with 
boxes,  shaped  like  those  &t  the  Italian  Opera  in  England, 
but  in  their  decoration  much  more  gaudy.  In  the  centre 
of  the  kind  of  theatre  thus  railed  off,  was  a  canopied 
dais  with  the  Pope's  chair  upon  it.  The  pavement  was 
covered  with  a  carpet  of  the  brightest  green  ;  and  what 
with  this  green,  and  the  intolerable  reds  and  crimsons, 
and  gold  borders  of  the  hangings,  the  whole  concern 
looked  like  a  stupendous  Bon-bon.  On  either  side  of 
the  altar,  was  a  large  box  for  lady  strangers.  These 
were  filled  with  ladies  in  black  dresses  and  black 
veils.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Pope's  guard,  in  red  coats, 
leather  breeches,  and  jack-boots,  guarded  all  this  re- 
served space,  with  drawn  swords,  that  were  very  flashy 
in  every  sense  ;  and  from  the  altar  all  down  the  nave,  a 
broad  lane  was  kept  clear  by  the  Pope's  Swiss  guard,  who 
wear  a  quaint  striped  surcoat,  and  striped  tight  legs,  and 
carry  halberds  like  those  which  are  usually  shouldered 
by  those  theatrical  supernumeraries,  who  never  can  get 
off  the  stage  fast  enough,  and  who  may  be  generally  ob- 
served to  linger  in  the  enemy's  camp  after  the  open 
country,  held  by  the  opposite  forces,  ha*  been  split  up 
the  middle  by  a  convulsion  of  Nature. 

I  got  upon  the  border  of  the  green  carpet,  in  company 
with  a  great  many  other  gentlemen,  attired  in  black, 
(no  other  passport  is  necessary),  and  stood  there  at  my 
ease,  during  the  performance  of  mass.  The  singers  wore 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


237 


5n  a  crib  of  wire-work  (like  a  large  meat-safe  or  bird- 
cage) in  one  corner  ;  and  sang  most  atrociously.  All 
about  the  green  carpet,  there  was  a  slowly  moving  crowd 
of  people  :  talking  to  each  other  :  staring  at  the  Pop© 
through  eye-glasses  :  defrauding  one  another,  in  momenta 
of  partial  curiosity,  out  of  precarious  seats  on  the  bases 
of  pillars  :  and  grinning  hideously  at  the  ladies.  Dotted 
here  and  there,  were  little  knots  of  friars  (Francesc^ni, 
or  Cappuccini,  in  their  coarse  brown  dresses  and  peaked 
hoods)  making  a  strange  contrast  to  the  gaudy  ecclesias- 
tics of  higher  degree,  and  having  their  humility  gratified 
to  the  utmost,  by  being  shouldered  about,  and  elbowed 
right  and  left,  on  all  sides.  Some  of  these  had  muddy 
sandals  and  umbrellas,  and  stained  garments  :  having 
trudged  in  from  the  country.  The  faces  of  the  greater 
part  were  as  coarse  and  heavy  as  their  dress  ;  their 
dogged,  stupid,  monotonous  stare  at  all  the  glory  and 
6plenc<)ur,  having  something  in  it,  half  miserable,  and 
half  ridiculous. 

Up»on  the  green  carpet  itself,  and  gathered  round  the 
altar,  was  a  perfect  army  of  cardinals  and  priests,  in  red, 
gold,  purple,  violet,  white,  and  fine  linen.  Stragglers 
from  these,  went  to  and  fro  among  the  crowd,  conversing 
two  and  two,  or  giving  and  receiving  introductions,  and 
exchanging  salutations  ;  other  functionaries  in  black 
gowns,  and  other  functionaries  in  court-dresses,  were 
similarly  engaged.  In  the  midst  of  all  these,  and  stealthy 
Jesuits  creeping  in  and  out,  and  the  extreme  restlessness 
of  the  Youth  of  England,  who  were  perpetually  wander- 
ing about,  some  few  steady  persons  in  black  cassocks, 
who  had  knelt  down  with  their  faces  to  the  wall,  and 
were  poring  over  their  missals,  became,  unintentionally, 
a  sort  of  human  mantraps,  and  with  their  own  devout 
legs,  tripped  up  other  people's  by  the  dozen. 

There  was  a  great  pile  of  candles  lying  down  on  the 
floor  near  me,  which  a  very  old  man  in  a  rusty  black 
gown  with  an  open-work  tippet,  like  a  summer  ornament 
for  a  fireplace  in  tissue-paper,  made  himself  very  busy 
in  dispensing  to  all  the  ecclesiastics  :  one  apiece.  They 
loiterod  about  with  these  for  some  time,  under  their 
arms  like  walking-sticks,  or  in  their  hands  like  trunch- 
eons. At  a  certain  period  of  the  ceremony,  however, 
each  carried  his  candle  up  to  the  Pope,  laid  it  across  his 
two  knees  to  be  blessed,  took  it  back  again,  and  filed  off. 
This  was  done  in  a  very  attenuated  procession,  as  you 
inay  suppose,  and  occupied  a  long  time.  Not  because  it 
takes  long  to  bless  a  candle  through  and  through,  but 
because  there  were  so  many  candles  to  be  blessed.  At 
Jast  they  were  all  blessed  ;  and  then  they  were  all 
lighted  ;  and  then  the  Pope  was  taken  up,  chair  and  all, 
aad  carried  round  the  church. 


2m 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I  must  say,  that  I  never  saw  anything,  out  of  Novem. 
ber,  so  like  the  popular  English  commemoration  of  the 
fifth  of  that  month.  A  bundle  of  mr.tches  and  a  lantern, 
would  have  made  it  perfect.  Nor  did  the  Pope,  himself, 
at  all  mar  the  resemblance,  though  he  has  a  pleasant  and 
venerable  face  ;  for,  as  this  part  of  the  ceremony  makes 
him  giddy  and  sick,  he  shuts  his  eyes  when  it  is  per- 
formed :  and  having  his  eyes  shut,  and  a  great  mitre  on 
his  head,  and  his  head  itself  wagging  to  and  fro  as  they 
shook  him  in  carrying,  he  looked  as  if  his  mask  were 
going  to  tumble  off.  The  two  immense  fans  which  are 
always  borne,  one  on  either  side  of  him,  accompanied 
him,  of  course,  on  this  occasion.  As  they  carried  him 
along,  he  blessed  the  people  with  the  mystic  sign  ;  and 
as  he  passed  them,  they  kneeled  down.  When  he  had 
made  the  round  of  the  church,  he  was  brought  back 
again,  and  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  this  performance  was 
repeated,  in  the  whole,  three  times.  There  was,  cer- 
tainly, nothing  solemn  or  effective  in  it ;  and  certainly 
very  much  that  was  droll  and  tawdry.  But  this  remark 
applies  to  the  whole  ceremony,  except  the  raising  of  the 
Host,  when  every  man  in  the  guard  dropped  on  one  knee 
instantly,  and  dashed  his  naked  sword  on  the  ground  ; 
which  had  a  fine  effect. 

The  next  time  I  saw  the  cathedral,  was  some  two  or 
three  weeks  afterwards,  when  I  climbed  up  into  the  ball ; 
and  then,  the  hangings  being  taken  down,  and  the  carpet 
taken  up,  but  all  the  framework  left,  the  remnants  of 
these  decorations  looked  like  an  exploded  cracker. 

The  Friday  and  Saturday  having  been  solemn  Festa 
days,  and  Sunday  being  always  a  dies  nan  in  carnival 
proceedings,  we  had  looked  forward,  with  some  impati- 
ence and  curiosity,  to  the  beginning  of  the  new  week . 
Monday  and  Tuesday  being  the  two  last  and  best  days 
of  the  Carnival. 

On  that  Monday  afternoon  at  one  or  two  o'clock,  there 
began  to  be  a  great  rattling  of  carriages  into  the  court- 
yard of  the  hotel ;  a  hurrying  to  and  fro  of  all  the  ser- 
vants in  it ;  and,  now  and  then,  a  swift  shooting  across 
some  doorway  or  balcony,  of  a  straggling  stranger  in  a 
fancy  dress  :  not  yet  sufficiently  well  used  to  the  same, 
to  wear  it  with  confidence,  and  defy  public  opinion. 
All  the  carriages  were  open,  and  had  the  linings  carefully 
covered  with  white  cotton  or  calico,  to  prevent  their 
proper  decorations  from  being  spoiled  by  the  incessant 
pelting  of  sugar-plums  ;  and  people  were  packing  and 
cramming  into  every  vehicle  as  it  waited  for  its  occupants, 
enormous  sacks,  and  baskets-full  of  these  confetti,  to- 
gether with  such  heaps  of  flowepe,  tied  up  in  little  nose- 
gays, that  some  carriages  were  not  only  brimful  of 
flowers,  but  literally  running  over :  scattering  at  every 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


239 


shake  and  jerk  of  the  springs,  some  of  their  abundance 
on  the  ground.  Not  to  be  behind-hand  in  these  essential 
particulars,  we  caused  two  very  respectable  sacks  of 
sugar-plums  (each  about  three  feet  high)  and  a  large 
clothes-basket  full  of  flowers  to  be  conveyed  into  our 
hired  barouche,  with  all  speed.  And  from  our  place  of 
observation,  in  one  of  the  upper  balconies  of  the  hotel, 
we  contemplated  these  arrangements  with  the  liveliest 
satisfaction.  The  carriages  now  beginning  to  take  up 
their  company,  and  move  away,  we  got  into  ours,  and 
drove  off  too,  armed  with  little  wire  masks  for  our  faces  ; 
the  sugar-plums,  like  Falstaff's  adulterated  sack,  having 
lime  in  their  composition. 
-  The  Corso  is  a  street  a  mile  long ;  a  street  of  shops, 
and  palaces,  and  private  houses,  sometimes  opening  into 
a  broad  piazza.  There  are  verandas  and  balconies,  of  all 
shapes  and  sizes,  to  almost  every  house — not  on  one  story 
alone,  but  often  to  one  room  or  another  on  every  story — 
put  there  in  general  with  so  little  order  or  regularity, 
that  if,  year  after  year,  and  season  after  season,  it  had 
rained  balconies,  hailed  balconies,  snowed  balconies, 
blown  balconies,  they  could  scarcely  have  come  into  ex- 
istence in  a  more  disorderly  manner. 

This  is  the  great  fountain-head  and  focus  of  the  Carni- 
val. But  all  the  streets  in  which  the  Carnival  is  held, 
being  vigilantly  kept  by  dragoons,  it  is  necessary  for 
carriages,  in  the  flrst  instance,  to  pass,  in  line,  down 
aiaother  thoroughfare,  and  so  come  into  the  Corso  at  the 
end  remote  from  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  ;  which  is  one  of 
its  terminations.  Accordingly,  we  fell  into  the  string  of 
coaches,  and,  for  some  time,  jogged  on  quietly  enough  ; 
now  crawling  on  at  a  very  slow  walk  ;  now  trotting  half 
a  dozen  yards ;  now  backing  fifty ;  and  now  stopping 
altogether :  as  the  pressure  in  front  obliged  us.  If  any 
impetuous  carriage  dashed  out  of  the  rank  and  clattered 
forward,  with  the  wild  idea  of  getting  on  faster,  it  was 
suddenly  met,  or  overtaken,  by  a  trooper  on  horseback, 
who,  deaf  as  his  own  drawn  sword  to  all  remonstrances, 
immediately  escorted  it,  back  to  the  very  end  of  the  row, 
and  made  it  a  dim  speck  in  the  remotest  perspective. 
Occasionally,  w^e  interchanged  a  volley  of  confetti  with 
the  carriage  next  in  front,  or  the  carriage  next  behind  ; 
but,  as  yet,  this  capturing  of  stray  and  errant  coaches  by 
the  military,  was  the  chief  amusement. 

Presently,  we  came  into  a  narrow  street,  where,  besides 
one  line  of  carriages  going,  there  was  another  line  of 
carriages  returning.  Here  the  sugar-plums  and  the  nose- 
gays began  to  fly  about,  pretty  smartly;  and  I  was  fortun- 
ate enough  to  observe  one  gentleman  attired  as  a  Greek 
warrior,  catch  a  light- whiskered  brigand  on  the  nose  (he 
was  in  the  very  act  of  tossing  up  a  bouquet  to  a  young 


240  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


lady  in  the  first-floor  window)  with  a  precision  that  was 
much  applauded  by  the  by-standers.  As  this  victorious 
Greek  was  exchanging  a  facetious  remark  with  a  stout 
gentleman  in  the  door- way— one-half  black  and  one-half 
white,  as  if  he  had  been  peeled  up  the  middle — who  had 
offered  him  his  congratulations  on  this  achievement,  he 
received  an  orange  from  a  house-top,  full  on  his  left  ear, 
and  was  much  surprised,  not  to  say  discomfited.  Es- 
pecially, as  he  was  standing  up  at  the  time  ;  and  in  conse- 
quence of  the  carriage  moving  on  suddenly,  at  the  same 
moment,  staggered  ignominiously,  and  buried  himself 
among  his  flowers. 

Some  quarter  of  an  hour  of  this  sort  of  progress 
brought  us  to  the  Corso  ;  and  anything  so  gay,  so  bright, 
and  lively  as  the  whole  scene  there,  it  would  be  difiicult 
to  imagine.  From  all  the  innumerable  balconies  :  from 
the  remotest  and  highest,  no  less  than  from  the  lowest 
and  nearest :  hangings  of  bright  red,  bright  green,  bright 
blue,  white  and  gold,  were  fluttering  in  the  brilliant 
sunlight.  From  windows,  and  from  parapets,  and  tops 
of  houses,  streamers  of  the  richest  colours,  and  draperies 
of  the  gaudiest  and  most  sparkling  hues,  were  floating 
out  upon  the  street.  The  buildings  seemed  to  have  been 
literally  turned  inside  out,  and  to  have  all  their  gaiety 
towards  the  highway.  Shop-fronts  were  taken  down, 
and  the  windows  filled  with  company,  like  boxes  at  a 
shining  theatre  ;  doors  were  carried  off  their  hinges,  and 
long  tapestried  groves,  hun^  with  garlands  of  flowers 
and  evergreens,  displayed  within  ;  builders*  scaffoldings 
were  gorgeous  temples,  radiant  in  silver,  gold,  and  crim- 
son ;  and  in  every  nook  and  corner,  from  the  pavement 
to  the  chimney-tops,  where  women's  eyes  could  glisten, 
there  they  danced,  and  laughed,  and  sparkled,  like  the 
light  in  water.  Every  sort  of  bewitching  madness  of 
dress  was  there.  Little  preposterous  scarlet  jackets ; 
quaint  old  stomachers,  more  wicked  than  the  smartest 
Dodices  ;  Polish  pelisses,  strained  and  tight  as  ripe  goose- 
berries  ;  tiny  Greek  caps,  all  awry,  and  clinging  to  the 
dark  hair,  Heaven  knows  how  ;  every  wild,  quaint,  bold, 
shy,  pettish,  madcap  fancy  had  its  illustration  in  a  dress  ; 
and  every  fancy  was  as  dead  forgotten  by  its  owner,  in 
the  tumult  of  merriment,  as  if  the  three  old  aqueducts 
that  still  remain  entire,  had  brought  Lethe  into  Rome, 
upon  their  sturdy  arches,  that  morning. 

The  carriages  were  now  three  abreast ;  in  broader 
places  four ;  often  stationary  for  a  long  time  together ; 
always  one  close  mass  of  variegated  brightness ;  show- 
ing, the  whole  streetful,  through  the  storm  of  flow 
ers,  like  flowers  of  a  larger  growth  themselves.  In 
some,  the  horses  were  richly  caparisoned  in  magnificent 
trappings  j  in  others  they  were  decked  from  head  to  tail. 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


241 


with  flowing  ribbons.  Some  were  driven  by  coachmen 
with  enormous  double  faces  :  one  face  leering  at  the 
korses  :  the  other  cocking  its  extraordinary  eyes  into  tlie 
carriage  :  and  both  rattling  again,  under  the  hail  of 
sugar-plums.  Other  drivers  were  attired  as  women, 
wearing  long  ringlets  and  no  bonnets,  and  looking  more 
ridiculous  in  any  real  diihculty  with  the  horses  (of 
which,  in  such  a  concourse,  there  were  a  great  many) 
than  tongue  can  tell,  or  pen  describe.  Instead  of  sitting 
in  the  carriages,  upon  the  seats,  the  handsome  Roman 
women,  to  see  and  to  be  seen  the  better,  sit  in  the  heads 
of  the  barouches,  at  tbis  time  of  general  license,  with 
their  feet  upon  the  cushions — and  oh  the  flowing  skirts 
and  dainty  waists,  the  blessed  shapes  and  laughing 
faces,  the  free,  good-humoured,  gallant  figures  that  they 
make  !  There  were  great  vans,  too,  full  of  handsome 
girls — thirty,  or  more  together,  perhaps — and  the  broad- 
sides that  were  poured  into,  and  poured  out  of,  these 
fairy  fire-ships,  splashed  the  air  with  flowers  and  bon- 
bons for  ten  minutes  at  a  time.  Carriages,  delayed  long 
in  one  place,  would  begin  a  deliberate  engagement  with 
other  carriages,  or  with  people  at  the  lower  windows  ; 
and  the  spectators  at  some  upper  balcony  or  window, 
joining  in  the  fray,  and  attacking  both  parties,  would 
empty  down  great  bags  of  confetti,  that  descended  like 
a  cloud,  and  in  an  instant  made  them  white  as  millers. 
Still,  carriages  on  carriages,  dresses  on  dresses,  colours 
on  colours,  crowds  upon  crowds,  without  end.  Men  and 
boys  clinging  to  the  wheels  of  coaches,  and  holding  on 
behind,  and  following  in  their  w^ake,  and  diving  in 
among  the  horses*  feet  to  pick  up  scattered  flowers  to 
sell  again  ;  maskers  on  foot  (the  drollest,  generally)  in 
fantastic  exaggerations  of  court-dresses,  surveying  the 
throng  through  enormous  eye-glasses,  and  always  trans- 
ported with  an  ecstacy  of  love,  on  the  discovery  of  any  par- 
ticularly old  lady  at  a  window  ;  long  strings  of  Policinelli, 
laying  about  them  w  itli  blown  bladders  at  the  ends  of 
sticks  ;  a  waggon-full  of  madmen,  screaming  and  tearing 
to  the  life  ;  a  coach-full  of  grave  mamelukes,  with  their 
horse-tail  standard  set  up  in  the  midst  ;  a  party  of  gipsy- 
women  engaged  in  terrific  conflict  wdth  a  shipful  of 
sailors  ;  a  man-monkey  on  a  pole,  surrounded  by  strange 
animals  wdth  pigs'  faces,  and  lions'  tails,  carried  under 
their  arms,  or  worn  gracefully  over  their  shoulders ; 
carriages  on  carriages,  dresses  on  dresses,  colours  on 
colours,  crowds  upon  crowds,  without  end.  Not  many 
actual  characters  sustained,  or  represented,  perhaps, 
considering  the  number  dressed,  but  the  main  pleasure 
of  the  scene  consisting  in  its  perfect  good  temper ;  in  its 
bright,  and  infinite,  and  flashing  variety ;  and  in  its 
entire  abandonment  to  the  mad  humour  of  the  time — 


242  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


an  abandonment  so  perfect,  so  contagious,  so  irresistible, 
that  the  steadiest  foreigner  fights  up  to  his  middle  in 
flowers  and  sugar-plums,  like  the  wildest  Roman  of  them 
all,  and  thinks  of  nothing  else  till  half-past  four  o'clock, 
when  he  is  suddenly  reminded  (to  his  great  regret)  that 
this  is  not  the  whole  business  of  his  existence,  by  hear- 
ing the  trumpets  sound,  and  seeing  the  dragoons  begin 
to  clear  the  street. 

How  it  ever  is  cleared  for  the  race  that  takes  place  at 
five,  or  how  the  horses  ever  go  through  the  race,  with- 
out going  over  the  people,  is  more  than  I  can  say.  But 
the  carriages  get  out  into  the  by- streets,  or  up  into  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo,  and  some  people  sit  in  temporary 
galleries  in  the  latter  place,  and  tens  of  thousands  line 
the  Corso  on  both  sides,  when  the  horses  are  brought 
out  into  the  Piazza — to  the  foot  of  that  same  column 
which,  for  centuries,  looked  down  upon  the  games  and 
chariot-races  in  the  Circus  Maximus. 

At  a  given  signal  they  are  started  off.  Down  the  live 
lane,  the  whofe  length  of  the  Corso,  they  fly  like  the 
wind  :  riderless,  as  all  the  world  knows  :  with  shining 
ornaments  upon  their  backs,  and  twisted  in  their  plaited 
manes  ;  and  with  heavy  little  balls  stuck  full  of  spikes, 
dangling  at  their  sides,  to  goad  them  on.  The  jingling 
of  these  trappings,  and  the  rattling  of  their  hoofs  upon 
the  hard  stones  ;  the  dash  and  fury  of  their  speed  along 
the  echoing  street ;  nay,  the  very  cannon  that  are  fired 
— these  noises  are  nothing  to  the  roaring  of  the  multitude: 
their  shouts  :  the  clapping  of  their  hands.  But  it  is  soon 
over — almost  instantaneously.  More  cannon  shake  the 
town.  The  horses  have  plunged  into  the  carpets  put  across 
the  street  to  stop  them  ;  the  goal  is  reached;  the  prizes  are 
won  (they  are  given,  in  part,  by  the  poor  Jews,  as  a 
compromise  for  not  running  foot-races  themselves)  ;  and 
there  is  an  end  to  that  day's  sport. 

But  if  the  scene  be  bright,  and  gay,  and  crowded,  on 
the  last  day  but  one,  it  attains,  on  the  concluding  day, 
to  such  a  height  of  glittering  colour,  swarming  life,  and 
frolicsome  uproar,  that  the  bare  recollection  of  it  makes 
me  giddy  at  this  moment.  The  same  diversions,  greatly 
heightened  and  intensified  in  the  ardour  with  which  they 
are  pursued,  go  on  until  the  same  hour.  The  race  is  re- 
peated ;  the  cannon  are  fired  ;  the  shouting  and  clapping 
of  hands  are  renewed  ;  the  cannon  are  fired  again  ;  the 
race  is  over  ;  and  the  prizes  are  won.  But,  the  carriages: 
ankle-deep  in  sugar-plums  within,  and  so  beflowered  and 
dusty  without,  as  to  be  hardly  recognisable  for  the  same 
vehicles  that  they  were,  three  hours  ago  :  instead  of 
scampering  off  in  all  directions,  throng  into  the  Corso, 
where  they  are  soon  wedged  together  in  a  scarcely  move 
ing  mass.    For  the  diversion  of  the  Moccoletti,  the  last 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


243 


gay  madness  of  the  Carnival,  is  now  at  hand;  and  sellers 
of  little  tapers  like  what  are  called  Christmas  candles  in 
England,  are  shouting  lustily  on  every  side,  "Moccoli, 
Moccoli  I  Ecco  Moccoli  i  " — a  new  item  in  the  tumult ; 
quite  abolishing  that  other  item  of  *'  Ecco  Fi6ri  1  Ecco 
Pior — r — r  ! "  which  has  been  making  itself  audible  over 
all  the  rest,  at  intervals,  the  whole  day  through. 

As  the  bright  hangings  and  dresses  are  all  fading  into 
one  dull,  heavy,  uniform  colour  in  the  decline  of  the 
day,  lights  begin  flashing,  here  and  there  :  in  the  win- 
dows, on  the  housetops,  in  the  balconies,  in  the  carriages, 
in  the  hands  of  the  foot-passengers  :  little  by  little:  grad- 
ually, gradually  more  and  more  :  until  the  whole  long 
street  is  one  great  glare  and  blaze  of  fire.  Then,  every- 
body present  has  but  one  engrossing  object ;  that  is,  to 
extinguish  other  people's  candles,  and  to  keep  his  own 
aligiit  ;  and  everybody  :  man,  woman,  or  child,  gentle- 
man or  lady,  prince  or  peasant,  native  or  foreigner  :  yells 
and  screams,  and  roars  incessantly,  as  a  taunt  to  the  sub- 
dued, "Senza  Moccolo,  Senza  Moccolo!"  (Without  a 
light  I  Without  a  light  I)  until  nothing  is  heard  but 
a  gigantic  chorus  of  those  two  words,  mingled  with 
peals  of  laughter. 

The  spectacle,  at  this  time,  is  one  of  the  most  extra- 
ordinary that  can  be  imagined.  Carriages  coming  slowly 
by,  with  everybody  standing  on  the  seats  or  on  the  box, 
holding  up  their  lights  at  arms'  length,  for  greater  safe- 
ty ;  some  in  paper  shades  ;  some  with  a  bunch  of  un- 
defended little  tapers,  kindled  altogether ;  some  with 
blazing  torches  ;  some  with  feeble  little  candles  ;  men 
on  foot,  creeping  along,  among  the  wheels,  watching 
their  opportunity,  to  make  a  spring  at  some  particular 
light,  and  dash  it  out ;  other  people  climbing  up  into 
carriages,  to  get  hold  of  them  by  main  force  ;  others, 
chasing  some  unlucky  wanderer,  round  and  round  his 
own  coach,  to  blow  out  the  light  he  has  begged  or  stolen 
somewhere,  before  he  can  ascend  to  his  own  company, 
and  enable  them  to  light  their  extinguished  tapers  ; 
others,  with  their  hats  off,  at  a  carriage-door,  humbly 
beseeching  some  kind-hearted  lady  to  oblige  them  with 
a  light  for  a  cigar,  and  when  she  is  in  the  fulness  of 
doubt  whether  to  comply  or  no,  blowing  out  the  candle 
she  is  guarding  so  tenderly  with  her  little  hand  ;  other 
people  at  the  windows,  fishing  for  candles  with  lines 
and  hooks,  or  letting  down  long  willow  wands  with 
handkerchiefs  at  the  end,  and  flapping  them  out,  dexter- 
ously, when  the  bearer  is  at  the  height  of  his  triumph ; 
others,  biding  their  time  in  corners,  with  immense  ex- 
tinguishers like  halberds,  and  suddenly  coming  down 
upon  glorious  torches  ;  others,  gathered  round  one  coach, 
and  sticking  to  it ;  others,  raining  oranges  ajid  nosegays 


244  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


at  an  obdurate  little  lantern,  or  regularly  storming  a 
pyramid  of  men,  holding  up  one  man  among  them,  who 
carries  one  feeble  little  wick  above  his  head,  with  which 
he  defies  them  all  !  Senza  Moccolo  I  Senza  Moccolo  ! 
Beautiful  women,  standing  up  in  coaches,  pointing  in 
derision  at  extinguished  lights,  and  clapping  their  hands, 
as  they  pass  on,  crying,  Senza  Moccolo  I  Senza  Moc- 
colo !"  low  balconies  full  of  lovely  faces  and  gay  dresses, 
struggling  with  assailants  in  the  streets  ;  some  repress- 
ing them  as  they  climb  up,  some  bending  down,  some 
leaning  over,  some  shrinking  back — delicate  arms  and 
bosoms — graceful  figures — ^glowing  lights,  fluttering 
dresses,  Senza  Moccolo,  Senza  Moccolo,  Senza  Moc-co- 
lo-o-o-o  ! — when  in  the  wildest  enthusiasm  of  the  cry, 
and  fullest  ecstacy  of  the  sport,  the  Ave  Maria  rings 
from  the  church  steeples,  and  the  Carnival  is  over  in  an 
instant — put  out  like  a  taper,  with  a  breath  I 

There  was  a  masquerade  at  the  theatre  at  night,  as 
dull  and  senseless  as  a  London  one,  and  only  remarkable 
for  the  summary  way  in  which  the  house  was  cleared  at 
eleven  o'clock  :  which  was  done  by  a  line  of  soldiers, 
forming  along  the  wall,  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  and 
sweeping  the  whole  company  out  before  them,  like  a 
broad  broom.  The  game  of  the  Moccoletti  (the  word,  in 
the  singular,  Moccoletto,  is  the  diminutive  of  Moccolo, 
and  means  a  little  lamp  or  candle-snuff)  is  supposed  by 
some  to  be  a  ceremony  of  burlesque  mourning  for  the 
death  of  the  Carnival :  candles  being  indispensable  to 
Catholic  grief.  But  whether  it  be  so,  or  be  a  remnant  of 
the  ancient  Saturnalia,  or  an  incorporation  of  both,  or 
have  its  origin  in  anything  else.  I  shall  always  remem- 
ber it,  and  the  frolic,  as  a  brilliant  and  most  captivating 
sight  :  no  less  remarkable  for  the  unbroken  good-hu- 
niour  of  all  concerned,  down  to  the  very  lowest  (and 
among  those  who  scaled  the  carriages,  were  many  of  the 
commonest  men  and  boys)  than  for  its  innocent  vivacity. 
For,  odd  as  it  may  seem  to  say  so,  of  a  sport  so  full  of 
thoughtlessness  and  personal  display,  it  is  as  free  from 
any  taint  of  immodesty  as  any  general  mingling  of  the 
two  sexes  can  possibly  be  ;  and  there  seems  to  prevail, 
during  its  progress,  a  feeling  of  general,  almost  childish, 
simplicity  and  confidence,  which  one  thinks  of  with  a 
pang,  when  the  Ave  Maria  has  rung  it  away,  for  a 
whole  year. 

Availing  ourselves  of  a  part  of  the  quiet  interval  be- 
tween the  termination  of  the  Carnival  and  the  beginning 
of  the  Holy  Week :  when  everybody  had  run  away  from 
the  one,  and  few  people  had  yet  begun  to  run  back 
again  for  the  other :  we  went  conscientiously  to  work,  to 
see  Rome.    And,  by  dint  of  going  out  early  every  mom- 


• 

PICTURES  FROM  ITALY 


245 


ing,  and  coming  back  late  every  evening,  and  labouring 
hard  all  day,  I  believe  we  made  acquaintance  with  every 
post  and  pillar  in  the  city,  and  the  country  round  ;  and, 
in  particular,  explored  so  many  churches  that  I  aban- 
doned that  part  of  the  enterprise  at  last,  before  it  was 
half  finished,  lest  I  should  never,  of  my  own  accord,  go 
to  church  again,  as  long  as  I  lived.  But,  I  managed, 
almost  every  day,  at  one  time  or  other,  to  get  back  to 
the  Coliseum,  and  out  upon  the  open  Campagna,  beyond 
the  Tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella. 

We  often  encountered,  in  these  expeditions,  a  company 
of  English  Tourists,  with  whom  I  had  an  ardent,  but 
ungratified  longing,  to  establish  a  speaking  acquaintance. 
They  were  one  Mr.  Davis,  and  a  small  circle  of  friends. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  know  Mrs.  Davis's  name,  from 
her  being  always  in  great  request  among  her  party,  and 
her  party  being  everywhere.  During  the  Holy  Week, 
they  were  in  every  part  of  every  scene  of  every  cere- 
mony. For  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks  before  it,  they 
were  in  every  tomb,  and  every  church,  and  every  ruin, 
and  every  Picture  Gallery  ;  and  I  hardly  ever  observed 
Mrs.  Davis  to  be  silent  for  a  moment.  Deep  under- 
ground, high  up  in  St.  Peter's,  out  on  the  Campagna,  and 
stifling  in  the  Jews'  quarter,  Mrs.  Davis  turned  up,  all 
the  same.  I  don't  think  she  ever  saw  anything,  or  ever 
looked  at  anything  ;  and  she  had  always  lost  something 
out  of  a  straw  hand-basket,  and  was  trying  to  find  it, 
with  all  her  might  and  main,  among  an  immense  quan- 
tity of  English  halfpence,  which  lay,  like  sands  upon  the 
sea-shore,  at  the  bottom  of  it.  There  was  a  professional 
Cicerone  always  attached  to  the  party  (which  had  been 
brought  over  from  London,  fifteen  or  twenty  strong,  by 
contract),  and  if  he  so  much  as  looked  at  Mrs.  Davis,  she 
invariably  cut  him  short  by  saying,  "  There,  God  bless 
the  man,  don't  worrit  me  !  I  don't  understand  a  word 
you  say,  and  shouldn't  if  you  was  to  talk  till  you  was 
black  in  the  face  ! "  Mr.  Davis  always  had  a  snuff-col- 
oured great-coat  on,  and  carried  a  great  green  umbrella 
in  his  hand,  and  had  a  slow  curiosity  constantly  devour- 
ing him,  which  prompted  him  to  do  extraordinary 
things,  such  as  taking  the  covers  off  urns  in  tombs,  and 
looking  in  at  the  ashes  as  if  they  were  pickles — and  trac- 
ing out  inscriptions  with  the  ferrule  of  his  umbrella,  and 
saying,  with  intense  thoughtfulness,  "Here's  a  B  you 
see,  and  there's  a  R,  and  this  is  the  way  we  goes  on  in  ; 
is  it  !"  His  antiquarian  habits  occasioned  his  being  fre- 
quently in  the  rear  of  the  rest  ;  and  one  of  the  agonies 
of  Mrs.  Davis,  and  the  party  in  general,  was  an  ever- 
present  fear  that  Davis  would  be  lost.  This  caused  them 
to  scream  for  him,  in  the  strangest  places,  and  at  the 
most  improper  seasons.     And  when  he  came,  slowly 


346  WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


emerging  out  of  some  Sepulchre  or  other,  like  a  peaceful 
Ghoule,  saying  *'Here  I  ami"  Mrs.  Davis  invariably 
replied,  You'll  be  buried  alive  in  a  foreign  country, 
Davis,  and  it's  no  use  trying  to  prevent  you  ! " 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Davis,  and  their  party,  had  probably 
been  brought  from  London  in  about  nine  or  ten  days. 
Eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  the  Roman  legions  under 
Claudius,  protested  against  being  led  into  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Davis's  country,  urging  that  it  lay  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  world. 

Among  v^^hat  may  be  called  the  Cubs  or  mint)r  Lions 
of  Rome,  there  was  one  that  amused  me  mightily.  It  is 
always  to  be  found  there;  and  its  den  is  on  the  great  flight 
of  steps  that  lead  from  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  to  the  church 
of  Trinita  del  Monte.  In  plainer  words,  these  steps  are 
the  great  place  of  resort  for  the  artists'  Models,"  and 
there  they  are  constantly  waiting  to  be  hired.  The  first 
time  I  went  up  there,  I  could  not  conceive  why  the 
faces  seemed  familiar  tome  ;  why  they  appeared  to  have 
beset  me,  for  years,  in  every  possible  variety  of  action  and. 
costume  ;  and  how  it  came  to  pass  that  they  started  up 
before  me,  in  Rome,  in  the  broad  day,  like  so  many  sad- 
dled and  bridled  nightmares.  I  soon  found  that  we  had 
made  acquaintance,  and  improved  it,  for  several  years, 
on  the  wall  of  various  Exhibition  Galleries.  There  is 
one  old  gentleman,  with  long  white  hair  and  an  immense 
beard,  who,  to  my  knowledge,  has  gone  half  through 
the  catalogue  of  the  Royal  Academy.  This  is  the  vener- 
able, or  patriarchal  model.  He  carries  a  long  staff  ;  and 
every  knot  and  twist  in  that  staff  I  have  seen,  faithfully 
delineated,  innumerable  times.  There  is  another  man 
in  a  blue  cloak,  who  always  pretends  to  be  asleep  in  the 
sun  (when  there  is  any),  and  who,  I  need  not  say,  is 
always  very  wide  awake,  and  very  attentive  to  the  dis- 
position of  his  legs.  This  is  the  dolcefar'  mV/i^e  model. 
There  is  another  man  in  a  brown  cloak,  who  leans 
against  a  wall,  with  his  arms  folded  in  his  mantle,  and 
looks  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  :  which  are  just  visi- 
ble beneath  his  broad  slouched  hat.  This  is  the  assassin 
model.  There  is  another  man,  who  constantly  looks 
over  his  own  shoulder,  and  is  always  going  away,  but 
never  goes.  This  is  the  haughty  or  scornful  model.  As 
to  Domestic  Happiness,  and  Holy  Families,  they  should 
come  very  cheap,  for  there  are  lumps  of  them,  all  up  the 
steps  ;  and  the  cream  of  the  thing  is,  that  they  are  all 
the  falsest  vagabonds  in  the  world,  especially  made  up  for 
the  purpose,  and  having  no  counterparts  in  Rome  or  any 
other  part  of  the  habitable  globe. 

My  recent  mention  of  the  Carnival,  reminds  me  of  its 
being  said  to  be  a  mock  mourning  (in  the  ceremony 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


247 


with  which  it  closes),  for  the  gaieties  and  merry-makings 
be>'ore  Lent ;  and  this  again  reminds  me  of  the  real 
funerals  and  mourning  processions  of  Rome,  which,  like 
those  in  most  other  parts  of  Italy,  are  rendered  chiefly  re- 
markable to  a  foreigner,  by  the  indifference  with  which 
the  mere  clay  is  universally  regarded,  after  life  has  left 
it.  And  this  is  not  from  the  survivors*  having  had  time 
to  dissociate  the  memory  of  the  dead  from  their  well- 
remembered  appearance  and  form  on  earth  ;  for  the  in* 
terment  follows  too  speedily  after  death,  for  that : 
almost  always  taking  place  within  four-and-twenty  hours, 
and  sometimes,  within  twelve. 

At  Rome,  there  is  the  same  arrangement  of  Pits  in  a 
great,  bleak,  open,  dreary  space,  that  I  have  already 
described  as  existing  in  Genoa.  When  I  visited  it,  at 
noonday,  I  saw  a  solitary  coffin  of  plain  deal  :  uncovered 
by  any  shroud  or  pall,  and  so  slightly  made,  that  the 
hoof  of  any  wandering  mule  would  have  crushed  it  in  , 
carelessly  tumbled  down,  all  on  one  side,  on  the  door  of 
one  of  the  pits — and  there  left,  by  itself,  in  the  wind 
and  sun-shine.  How  does  it  come  to  be  left  here  I 
asked  the  man  who  showed  me  the  place.  It  was 
brought  here  half  an  hour  ago,  Signore,"  he  said.  I  re- 
membered to  have  met  the  procession,  on  its  return:  strag- 
gling away  at  a  good  round  pace.  When  will  it  be  put 
in  the  pit  ?  "  I  asked  him.  When  the  cart  comes,  and 
it  is  opened  to-night,"  he  said.  "How  much  dees  it  cost 
to  be  brought  here  in  this  way,  instead  of  coming  in  the 
cart  ?  "  I  asked  him.  Ten  scudi,"  he  said  (about  two 
pounds,  t wo-and-six-pence,  English).  * '  The  other  bodies, 
for  whom  nothing  is  paid,  are  taken  to  the  church  of  the 
Santa  Maria  del  la  Consolazione,"  he  continued,  "  and 
brought  there  all  together,  in  the  cart  at  night."  I  stood, 
a  moment,  looking  at  the  coffin,  which  had  two  initial 
letters  scrawled  upon  the  top  ;  and  turned  away,  with 
aij  expression  in  my  face,  I  suppose,  of  not  much  liking 
its  exposure  in  that  manner  :  for  he  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  with  great  vivacity,  and  giving  a  pleasant 
smile,  **  But  he's  dead,  Signore,  he's  dead.    Why  not  ?" 

Among  the  innumerable  churches,  there  is  one  I  must 
select  for  separate  mention.  It  is  the  church  of  the  Ara 
Cceli,  supposed  to  be  built  on  the  site  of  the  old  Temple 
of  Jupiter  Feretrius  ;  and  approached,  on  one  side,  by  a 
long  steep  flight  of  steps,  which  seem  incomplete  with 
out  some  group  of  bearded  soothsayers  on  the  top.  It  is 
remarkable  for  the  possession  of  a  miraculous  Bambino, 
or  wooden  doll,  representing  the  Infant  Saviour  ;  and  I 
first  saw  this  miraculous  Bambino,  in  legal  phrase,  iu 
manner  following,  that  is  to  say  : 

We  had  strolled  into  the  church  one  afternoon,  an^ 


248  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


were  looking  down  its  long  vista  of  gloomy  pillars  (for 
all  these  ancient  cliurclies  built  upon  the  ruins  of  old 
temples,  are  dark  and  sad),  when  th6  Brave  came  run- 
ning in,  with  a  grin  upon  his  face  that  stretched  it  from 
ear  to  ear,  and  implored  us  to  follow  him,  without  a 
moment's  delay,  as  they  were  going  to  show  the  Bam- 
bino to  a  select  party.  We  accordingly  hurried  off  to  a 
sort  of  chapel,  or  sacristy,  hard  by  the  chief  altar,  but 
not  in  the  church  itself,  where  the  select  party  :  consist- 
ing of  two  or  three  Catholic  gentlemen  and  ladies  (not 
Italians)  were  already  assembled :  and  where  one  hollow- 
cheeked  young  monk  was  lighting  up  divers  candles, 
while  another  was  putting  on  some  clerical  robes  over 
his  coarse  brown  habit.  The  candles  were  on  a  kind  of 
altar,  and  above  it  were  two  delectable  figures,  such  as 
you  would  see  at  any  English  fair,  representing  the 
Holy  Virgin,  and  Saint  Joseph,  as  I  suppose,  bending  in 
devotion  over  a  wooden  box,  or  coffer  ;  which  was  shut. 

The  hollow-cheeked  monk,  number  One,  having  fin- 
ished lighting  the  candles,  went  down  on  his  knees,  in  a 
corner,  before  this  set-piece ;  and  the  monk  number 
Two,  having  put  on  a  pair  of  highly  ornamented  and 
gold-bespattered  gloves,  lifted  down  the  coffer,  with 
great  reverence,  and  set  it  on  the  altar.  Then,  with 
many  genuflections,  and  muttering  certain  prayers,  he 
opened  it,  and  let  down  the  front,  and  took  off  sundry 
coverings  of  satin  and  lace  from  the  inside.  The  ladies 
had  been  on  their  knees  from  the  commencement ;  and 
the  gentlemen  now  dropped  down  devoutly,  as  he  exposed 
to  view  a  little  wooden  doll,  in  face  very  like  General 
I'om  Thumb,  the  American  Dwarf :  gorgeously  dressed 
in  satin  and  gold  lace,  and  actually  blazing  with  rich 
jewels.  There  was  scarcely  a  spot  upon  its  little  breast, 
or  neck,  or  stomach,  but  was  sparkling  with  the  costly 
offerings  of  the  Faithful.  Presently,  he  lifted  it  out  of 
the  box,  and,  carrying  it  round  among  the  kneelers,  set 
its  face  against  the  forehead  of  every  one,  and  tendered 
its  clumsy  foot  to  them  to  kiss — a  ceremony  which  they 
all  performed,  down  to  a  dirty  little  ragamuflSn  of  a  boy 
who  had  walked  in  from  the  street.  When  this  was 
done,  he  laid  it  in  the  box  again  :  and  the  company, 
rising,  drew  near,  and  commended  the  jewels  in  whis- 
pers. In  good  time,  he  replaced  the  coverings,  shut  up 
the  box,  put  it  back  in  its  place,  locked  up  the  whole  con- 
cern (Holy  Family  and  all)  behind  a  pair  of  folding- 
doors  ;  took  off  his  priestly  vestments  ;  and  received 
the  customary  small  charge,"  while  his  companion,  by 
means  of  an  extinguisher  fastened  to  the  end  of  a  long 
stick,  put  out  the  lights,  one  after  another.  The  candles 
being  all  extinguished,  and  the  money  all  collected,  they 
Setired,  and  so  did  the  spectators. 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


249 


I  met  this  same  Bambino,  in  the  street  a  short  time 
afterwards,  going,  in  great  state,  to  the  house  of  some 
sick  person.  It  is  taken  to  all  parts  of  Rome  for  this 
purpose,  constantly  ;  but,  I  understand  that  it  is  not 
always  as  successful  as  could  be  wished  ;  for,  making 
its  appearance  at  the  bedside  of  weak  and  nervous  people 
in  extremity,  accompanied  by  a  numerous  escort,  it  not 
unfrequently  frightens  them  to  death.  It  is  most  popu- 
lar in  cases  of  child-birth,  where  it  has  done  such 
wonders,  that  if  a  lady  be  longer  than  usual  in  getting 
through  her  difficulties,  a  messenger  is  despatched,  with 
all  speed,  to  solicit  the  immediate  attendance  of  the 
Bambino.  It  is  a  very  valuable  property,  and  much 
confided  in — especially  by  the  religious  body  to  whom  it 
belongs. 

I  am  happy  to  know  that  it  is  not  considered  immacu- 
late, by  some  who  are  good  Catholics,  and  who  are  behind 
the  scenes,  from  what  was  told  me  by  the  near  relation 
of  a  Priest,  himself  a  Catholic,  and  a  gentleman  of  learn- 
ing and  intelligence.  This  Priest  made  my  informant 
promise  that  he  would,  on  no  account,  allow  the  Bambino 
to  be  borne  into  the  bed-room  of  a  sick  lady,  in  whom 
they  were  both  interested.  ''For,"  said  he,  "if  they 
(the  monks)  trouble  her  with  it,  and  intrude  themselves 
into  her  room,  it  will  certainly  kill  her."  My  informant 
accordingly  looked  out  of  the  window  when  it  came  • 
and,  with  many  thanks,  declined  to  open  the  door.  He 
endeavoured,  in  another  case  of  which  he  had  no  other 
knowledge  than  such  as  he  gained  as  a  passer-by  at  the 
moment,  to  prevent  its  being  carried  into  a  small  un- 
wholesome chamber,  where  a  poor  girl  was  dying.  But, 
he  strove  against  it  unsuccessfully,  and  she  expired 
while  the  crowd  were  pressing  round  her  bed. 

Among  the  people  who  drop  into  St.  Peter's  at  their 
leisure,  to  kneel  on  the  pavement,  and  say  a  quiet  prayer, 
there  are  certain  schools  and  seminaries,  priestly  and 
otherwise,  that  come  in,  twenty  or  thirty  strong.  These 
boys  always  kneel  down  in  single  file,  one  behind  the 
other,  with  a  tall  grim  master  in  a  black  gown,  bringing 
up  the  rear  :  like  a  pack  of  cards  arranged  to  be  tumbled 
down  at  a  touch,  with  a  disproportionately  large  Knave 
of  clubs  at  the  end.  When  they  have  had  a  minute  or 
so  at  the  chief  altar,  they  scramble  up,  and  filing  off  to 
the  chapel  of  the  Madonna,  or  the  sacrament,  flop  down 
again  in  the  same  order  ;  so  that  if  anybody  did  stumble 
against  the  master,  a  general  and  sudden  overthrow  of 
the  whole  line  must  inevitably  ensue. 

The  scene  in  all  the  churches  is  the  strangest  possible. 
The  same  monotonous,  heartless,  drowsy  chaunting, 
always  going  on  ;  the  same  dark  building,  darker  from 
file  brightness  of  the  street  without  \  the  same  lamp* 


250 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


dimly  burning  ;  the  self-same  people  kneeling  here  and 
there  ;  turned  towards  you,  from  one  altar  or  other,  the 
same  priest's  back,  with  the  same  large  cross  embroidered 
on  it  ;  however  different  in  size,  in  shape,  in  wealth,  in 
architecture,  this  church  is  from  that,  it  is  the  same 
^thing  still.  There  are  the  same  dirty  beggars  stopping 
in  their  muttered  prayers  to  beg  ;  the  same  miserable 
cripples  exhibiting  their  deformity  at  the  doors  ;  the 
same  blind  men,  rattling  little  pots  like  kitchen  pepper- 
castors  :  their  depositories  for  alms  ;  the  same  prepos- 
terous crowns  of  silver  stuck  upon  the  painted  heads  of 
kingle  saints  and  Virgins  in  crowded  pictures,  so  that  a 
little  figure  on  a  mountain  has  a  head-dress  bigger  than 
the  temple  in  the  foreground,  or  adjacent  miles  of  land- 
scape ;  the  same  favourite  shrine  or  figure,  smothered 
with  little  silver  hearts  and  crosses,  and  the  }ike :  the 
staple  trade  and  show  of  all  the  jew^ellers  ;  the  same  odd 
mixture  of  respect  and  indecorum,  faith  and  phlegm  : 
kneeling  on  the  stones,  and  spitting  on  them,  loudly  ; 
getting  up  from  prayers  to  beg  a  little,  or  to  pursue  some 
other  worldly  matter :  and  then  kneeling  down  again, 
to  resume  the  contrite  supplication  at  the  point  where  it 
Was  interrupted.  In  one  church,  a  kneeling  lady  got  up 
from  her  prayers,  for  a  moment,  to  offer  us  her  card,  as 
a  teacher  of  music  ;  and  in  another,  a  sedate  gentleman 
with  a  very  thick  walking-staff,  arose  from  his  devotions 
to  belabour  his  dog,  who  was  growling  at  another  dog  : 
and  whose  yelps  and  howls  resounded  through  the 
church,  as  his  master  quietly  relapsed  into  his  former 
train  of  meditation — keeping  his  eye  upon  the  dog,  at 
the  same  time,  nevertheless. 

Above  all,  there  is  always  a  receptacle  for  the  contri- 
butions of  the  Faithful,  in  some  form  or  other.  Some- 
times, it  is  a  money-box,  set  up  between  the  worshipper, 
and  the  wooden  life-size  figure  of  the  Redeemer  ;  some- 
times, it  is  a  little  chest  for  the  maintenance  of  the  Vir- 
gin ;  sometimes,  an  appeal  on  behalf  of  a  popular  Bam- 
bino ;  sometimes,  a  bag  at  the  end  of  a  long  stick,  thrust 
among  the  people  here  and  there,  and  vigilantly  jingled 
by  an  active  Sacristan  ;  but  there  it  always  is,  and,  very 
often,  in  many  shapes  in  the  same  church,  and  doing 
pretty  well  in  all.  Nor,  is  it  wanting  in  the  open  air — 
the  streets  and  roads — for,  often  as  you  are  walking 
along,  thinking  about  anything  rather  than  a  tin-canis- 
ter, that  object  pounces  out  upon  you  from  a  little  house 
by  the  wayside  ;  and  on  its  top  is  painted,  "  For  the  Souls 
in  Purgatory  ; "  an  appeal  which  the  bearer  repeats  n 

freat  many  times,  as  he  rattles  it  before  you,  much  as 
'uncli  rattles  the  '^''acked  bell  which  his  sanguine  dis- 
position makes  an  organ  of. 
And  this  reminds'me  that  some  Roman  altau  of  pe- 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


261 


culiar  sanctity,  t)ear  the  inscription,  *'  Every  mass  per- 
formed at  this  altar,  frees  a  soul  from  Purgatory/'  I 
iiave  never  been  able  to  find  out  the  charge  for  one  of 
these  services,  but  they  should  needs  be  expensive. 
There  are  several  Crosses  in  Rome  too,  the  kissing  of 
which,  confers  indulgences  for  varying  terrus.  That  in 
the  centre  of  the  Coliseum,  is  worth  a  hundred  days ; 
and  people  may  be  seen  kissing  it  from  morning  to 
night.  It  is  curious  that  some  of  these  crosses  seem  to 
acquire  an  arbitrary  popularity  ;  this  very  one  among 
them.  In  another  part  of  the  Coliseum  there  is  a  cross 
upon  a  marble  slab,  with  the  inscription,  Who  kisses 
this  cross  shall  be  entitled  to  Two  hundred  and  forty 
days*  indulgence."  But  I  saw  no  one  person  kiss  it, 
though,  day  after  day,  I  sat  in  the  arena,  and  saw  scores 
upon  scores  of  peasants  pass  it,  on  their  way  to  kiss  the 
other. 

To  single  out  details  from  the  great  dream  of  Roman 
Churches,  would  be  the  wildest  occupation  in  the  world. 
But  St.  Stefano  Rotondo,  a  damp  mildewed  vault  of  an 
old  church  in  the  outskirts  of  Rome,  will  always  struggle 
uppermost  in  my  mind,  by  reason  of  the  hideous  paint- 
ings with  which  its  walls  are  covered.  These  represent 
the  martyrdoms  of  saints  and  early  Christians  ;  and  such 
a  panorama  of  horror  and  butchery  no  man  could  im- 
agine in  his  sleep,  though  he  were  to  eat  a  whole  pig, 
raw,  for  supper.  Grey- bearded  men  being  boiled,  fried, 
grilled,  crimped,  singed,  eaten  by  wild  beasts,  worried 
by  dogs,  buried  alive,  torn  asunder  by  horses,  chopped 
up  small  with  hatchets  :  women  having  their  breasts 
jorn  with  iron  pinchers,  their  tongues  cut  out,  their  ears 
screwed  off,  their  jaws  broken,  their  bodies  stretched 
upon  the  rack,  or  skinned  upon  the  stake,  or  crackled 
up  and  melted  in  the  fire  :  these  are  a?nong  the  mildest 
subjects.  So  insisted  on,  and  laboured  at,  besides,  that 
every  sufferer  gives  you  the  same  occasion  for  wonder 
as  poor  old  Duncan  awoke.  In  Lady  Macbeth,  when  she 
ir.ar veiled  at  his  having  so  much  blood  in  him. 

There  is  an  upper  chamber  in  the  Mamertine  prisons, 
over  what  is  said  to  have  been — and  very  possibly  may 
have  been — the  dungeon  of  St.  Peter.  This  chamber  is 
now  fitted  up  as  an  oratory,  dedicated  to  that  saint ;  and 
it  lives,  as  a  distinct  and  separate  place,  in  my  recollec- 
tion, too.  It  is  very  small  and  low-roofed  ;  and  the 
dread  and  gloom  of  the  ponderous,  obdurate  old  prison 
are  on  it,  as  if  they  had  come  up  in  a  dark  mist  through 
the  floor.  Hanging  on  the  walls,  among  the  clustered 
votive  offerings,  are  objects,  at  once  strangely  in  keep- 
ing, and  strangely  at  variance,  with  the  place — rusty 
daggers,  knives,  pistols,  clubs,  divers  instruments  of 
violence  and  murder,  brought  here,  fresh  from  use,  and 


252 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


hung  ap  to  propitiate  offended  Heaven :  as  if  the  blood 
upon  them  would  drain  off  in  consecrated  air,  and  have 
no  voice  to  cry  with.  It  is  all  so  silent  and  so  close,  and 
tomb-like  ;  and  the  dungeons  below,  are  so  black  and 
stealthy,  and  stagnant,  and  naked  ;  that  this  little  dark 
spot  becomes  a  dream  within  a  dream  :  and  in  the  vision 
of  great  churches  which  come  rolling  past  me  like  a  sea, 
it  is  a  small  wave  by  itself,  that  melts  into  no  other 
wave,  and  does  not  flow  on  with  the  rest. 

It  is  an  awful  thing  to  think  of  the  enormous  caverns 
that  are  entered  from  some  Roman  churches,  and  under- 
tnine  the  city.  Many  churches  have  crypts  and  subter- 
ranean chapels  of  great  size,  which,  in  the  ancient  time, 
were  baths,  and  secret  chambers  of  temples,  and  what 
not;  but  I  do  not  speak  of  them.  Beneath  the  church 
of  St.  Giovanni  and  St.  Paolo,  there  are  the  jaws  of  a 
terrific  range  of  caverns,  hewn  out  of  the  rock,  and  said 
to  have  another  outlet  underneath  the  Coliseum — tremen- 
dous darknesses  of  vast  extent,  half-buried  in  the  earth 
and  unexplorable,  where  the  dull  torches,  flashed  by  the 
attendants,  glimmer  down  long  ranges  of  distant  vaults 
branching  to  the  right  and  left,  like  streets  in  a  city  of 
the  dead ;  and  show  the  bold  damp  stealing  down  the 
walls,  drip-drop,  drip-drop,  to  join  the  pools  cf  water  that 
lie  here  and  there,  and  never  saw,  and  never  will  see,  one 
l"ay  of  the  sun.  Some  accounts  make  these  the  prisons 
of  the  wild  beasts  destined  for  the  amphitheatre  ;  some 
the  prisons  of  the  condemned  gladiators  ;  some,  both. 
But  the  legend  most  appalling  to  the  fancy  is,  that  in 
the  upper  range  (for  there  are  two  stories  of  these  caves) 
the  Early  Christians  destined  to  be  eaten  at  the  Coliseum 
Shows,  heard  the  wild  beasts,  hungry  for  them,  roaring 
down  below  ;  until,  upon  the  night  and  solitude  of  their 
captivity,  there  burst  the  sudden  noon  and  life  of  the 
vast  theatre  crowded  to  the  j^arapet,  and  of  these,  their 
dreaded  neighbours,  bounding  in  ! 

Below  the  church  of  San  Sebastiano,  two  miles  beyond 
the  gate  of  San  Sebastiano,  on  the  Appian  Way,  is  the 
entrance  to  the  catacombs  of  Rome — quarries  in  the  old 
time,  but  afterwards  the  hiding-places  of  the  Christians. 
These  ghastly  passages  have  been  explored  for  twenty 
miles  ;  and  form  a  chain  of  labyrinths,  sixty  miles  in 
circumference. 

A  gaunt  Franciscan  friar,  with  a  wild  bright  eye,  was 
our  only  guide,  down  into  this  profound  and  dreadful 
place.  The  narrow  ways  and  openings  hither  and  thither, 
coupled  with  the  dead  and  heavy  air,  soon  blotted  out, 
in  all  of  us,  any  recollection  of  the  track  by  which  we  had 
come  ;  and  I  could  not  help  thinking,  Good  Heaven,  if, 
in  a  sudden  fit  of  madness,  he  should  dash  the  torches 
out,  or  if  he  should  be  seized  with  a  fit,  what  would 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


253 


become  of  us  I"  On  we  wandered,  among  martyrs* 
graves  :  passing  great  subterranean  vaulted  roads,  di- 
verging in  all  directions,  and  choked  up  with  heaps  of 
stones,  that  thieves  and  murderers  m.ay  not  take  refuge 
there,  and  form  a  population  under  Rome,  even  worse 
than  that  which  lives  between  it  and  the  sun.  Graves, 
graves,  graves  ;  Graves  of  men,  of  women,  of  their  little 
children,  who  ran  crying  to  the  persecv^tors,  *'We  are 
Christians  !  We  are  Christians  ! "  that  they  might  be 
murdered  with  their  parents  ;  Graves  with  the  palm  of 
martyrdom  roughly  cut  into  their  stone  boundaries,  and 
little  niches,  made  to  hold  a  vessel  of  the  martyrs'  blood  - 
Graves  of  some  v/ho  lived  down  here,  for  years  together, 
ministering  to  the  rest,  and  preaching  truth,  and  hope, 
and  comfort,  from  the  rude  altars,  that  bear  witness  to 
their  fortitude  at  this  hour  ;  more  roomy  graves,  but  far 
more  terrible,  where  hundreds,  being  surprised,  were 
hemmed  in  and  walled  up  :  buried  before  Death,  and 
killed  by  slow  starvation. 

The  Triumphs  of  the  Faith  are  not  above  ground  id 
our  splendid  churches,''  said  the  friar,  looking  rouni 
upon  us,  as  we  stopped  to  rest  in  one  of  the  low  passages, 
with  bones  and  dust  surrounding  us  on  every  side. 
''They  are  here!  Among  the  Martyrs'  Graves!"  He 
was  a  gentle,  earnest  man,  and  said  it  from  his  heart ; 
but  when  I  thought  how  Christian  men  have  dealt  with 
one  another  ;  how,  perverting  our  most  merciful  relig- 
ion, they  have  hunted  down  and  tortured,  burnt  and 
beheaded,  strangled,  slaughtered,  and  oppressed  each 
other  ;  I  picture  to  myself  an  agony  surpassing  any  that 
this  Dust  had  suffered  with  the  breath  of  life  yet  linger- 
ing in  it,  and  how  these  great  and  constant  hearts  would 
have  been  shaken — how  they  would  have  quailed  and 
drooped — if  a  fore-knowledge  of  the  deeds  that  profess- 
ing Christians  would  commit  in  the  Great  Name  for 
which  they  died,  could  have  rent  them  with  its  own 
unutterable  anguish,  on  the  cruel  wheel,  and  bitter 
cross,  and  in  the  fearful  fire. 

Such  are  the  spots  and  patches  in  my  dream  of 
churches,  that  remain  apart,  and  keep  their  separate 
identity.  I  have  a  fainter  recollection,  sometimes  of  the 
relics  ;  of  the  fragments  of  the  pillar  of  the  Temple  that 
was  rent  in  twain  ;  of  the  portion  of  the  table  that  was 
spread  for  the  Last  Supper;  of  the  well  at  which  the 
woman  of  Samaria  gave  water  to  Our  Saviour ;  of  the 
two  columns  from  the  house  of  Pontius  Pilate  ;  of  the 
stone  to  which  the  Sacred  hands  were  bound,  when  the 
scourging  was  performed  ;  of  the  gridiron  of  St.  Law- 
rence, and  the  stone  below  it,  marked  with  the  frying  of 
his  fat  and  blood ;  these  set  a  shadowy  mark  on  some 
cathedrals,  as  an  old  story,  or  a  fable  might,  and  stop 


254  WORKS  OF  CHAKLE8  DICKENS. 


them  for  an  instant,  as  tliey  flit  before  me.  The  rest  is  a 
vast  wilderness  of  consecrated  buildings  of  all  shapes 
and  fancies,  blending  one  with  another  ;  of  battered  pil- 
lars of  old  Pagan  temples,  dug  up  from  the  ground,  and 
forced,  like  giant  captives,  to  support  the  roofs  of  Chris- 
tian churches  ;  of  pictures,  bad,  and  wonderful,  and  im- 
pious, and  ridiculous;  of  kneeling  people,  curling  incense, 
tinkling  bells,  and  sometimes  (but  not  often)  of  a  swell- 
ing organ  ;  of  Madonne,  with  their  breasts  stuck  full  of 
swords,  arranged  in  a  half-circle  like  a  modern  fan  ;  of 
actual  skeletons  of  dead  saints,  hideously  attired  in 
gaudy  satins,  silks,  and  velvets  trimmed  with  gold  : 
their  withered  crust  of  skull  adorned  with  precious  jew- 
els, or  with  chaplets  of  crushed  flowers  ;  sometimes,  of 
people  gathered  round  the  pulpit,  and  a  monk  within  it 
stretching  out  the  crucifix,  and  preaching  fiercely  :  the 
sun  just  streaming  down  through  some  high  window  on 
the  sail-cloth  stretched  above  him  and  across  the  church, 
to  keep  his  high-pitched  voi'e  from  being  lost  among  the 
echoes  of  the  roof.  Then  my  tired  memory  comes  out 
upon  a  flight  of  steps,  where  knots  of  people  are  asleep 
or  basking  in  the  light ;  and  strolls  away  among  the 
rags,  and  smells,  and  palaces,  and  hovels,  of  an  old 
Italian  street. 

On  one  Saturday  morning  (the  eighth  of  March),  a  man 
was  beheaded  here,  Nino  or  ten  months  before,  he  had 
waylaid  a  Bavarian  countess,  travelling  as  a  pilgrim  to 
Rome — alone  and  on  foot,  of  course — and  performing,  it 
is  said,  that  act  of  piety  for  the  fourth  time.  He  saw 
her  change  a  piece  of  gold  at  Viterbo,  where  he  lived  ; 
followed  her  ;  bore  her  company  on  her  journey  for  some 
forty  miles  or  more,  on  the  treacherous  pretext  of  pro- 
tecting her  ;  attacked  her,  in  the  fulfilment  of  his 
unrelenting  purpose,  on  the  Campagna,  within  a  very 
short  distance  of  Rome,  near  to  what  is  called  (but  what 
is  not)  the  Tomb  of  Nero  ;  robbed  her  ;  and  beat  her  to 
death  with  her  own  pilgrim's  staff.  He  was  newly 
married,  and  gave  some  of  her  apparel  to  his  wife  :  say- 
ing that  he  had  bought  it  at  a  fair.  She,  however,  who 
had  seen  the  pilgrim- countess  passing  through  their 
town,  recognized  some  trifle  as  having  belonged  to  hen 
Her  husband  then  told  her  what  he  had  done.  She,  in 
confession,  told  a  priest ;  and  the  man  was  taken,  within 
four  days  after  the  commission  of  the  murder. 

There  are  no  fixed  times  for  the  administration  of 
justice,  or  its  execution,  in  this  unaccountable  country ; 
and  he  had  been  in  prison  ever  since.  On  the  Friday,  as 
he  was  dining  with  the  other  prisoners,  they  came  and 
told  him  he  was  to  be  beheaded  next  morning,  and  took 
him  away.    It  is  very  unusual  to  execute  in  Lent :  but 


PICTURES  FKOM  ITALY. 


255 


his  crime  being  a  very  bad  one,  it  was  deemed  advisable 
to  make  an  example  of  him  at  that  time,  when  great 
numbers  of  pilgrims  ^ere  coming  towards  Rome,  from 
all  parts,  for  the  Holy  Week.  I  heard  of  this  on  tho 
Friday  evening,  and  saw  the  bills  up  at  the  churches, 
calling  on  the  people  to  pray  for  the  criminaVs  soul.  So, 
I  determined  to  go,  and  see  him  executed. 

The  beheading  was  appointed  for  fourteen  and  a  half 
o'clock,  Roman  time  :  or  a  quarter  before  nine  in  the 
forenoon.  I  had  two  friends  with  me  ;  and  as  we  did 
not  know  but  that  the  crowd  might  be  very  great,  we 
were  on  the  spot  by  half-past  seven.  The  place  of  exe- 
cution was  near  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  decollate 
(a  doubtful  compliment  to  Saint  John  the  Baptist)  in  one 
of  the  impassable  back  streets  without  any  footway,  of 
which  a  great  part  of  Rome  is  composed — a  street  of 
rotten  houses,  which  do  not  seem  to  belong  to  anybody, 
and  do  not  seem  to  have  ever  been  inhabited,  and  cer- 
tainly were  never  built  on  any  plan,  or  for  any  particular 
purpose,  and  have  no  window-sashes,  and  are  a  little 
like  deserted  breweries,  and  might  be  warehouses,  but 
for  having  nothing  in  them.  Opposite  to  one  of  these, 
a  white  house,  the  scaffold  was  built.  An  untidy,  un- 
painted,  uncouth,  crazy  looking  thing  of  course :  some 
seven  feet  high,  perhaps  :  with  a  tall,  gallows-shaped 
frame  rising  above  it,  in  which  was  the  knife,  charged 
with  a  ponderous  mass  of  iron,  all  ready  to  descend,  and 
glittering  brightly  in  the  morning  sun,  whenever  it  look- 
ed out,  now  and  then,  from  behind  a  cloud. 

There  were  not  many  people  lingering  about  ;  and 
these  were  kept  at  %  considerable  distance  from  the 
scaffold,  by  parties  of  the  Pope's  dragoons.  Two  or 
three  hundred  foot-soldiers  were  under  arms,  standing 
at  ease  in  clusters  here  and  there  ;  and  the  officers  were 
walking  up  and  down  in  twos  and  threes,  chatting 
together,  and  smoking  segars. 

At  the  end  of  the  street,  was  an  open  space,  where 
there  would  be  a  dust-heap,  and  piles  of  broken  crockery, 
and  mounds  of  vegetable  refuse,  but  for  such  things 
being  thrown  anywhere  and  everywhere  in  Rome,  and 
favouring  no  particular  sort  of  locality.  We  got  into 
a  kind  of  wash-house,  belonging  to  a  dwelling-house 
on  this  spot ;  and  standing  there  in  an  old  cart,  and  on  ft 
heap  of  cart  wheels  piled  against  the  wall,  looked, 
through  a  large  grated  window,  at  the  scaffold,  and 
straight  down  the  street  beyond  it,  until,  in  consequence 
of  its  turning  off  abruptly  to  the  left,  our  perspective 
was  brought  to  a  sudden  termination,  and  had  a  corpu- 
lent officer,  in  a  cocked  hat,  for  its  crowning  feature. 

Nine  o'clock  struck,  and  ten  o'clock  struck,  and  noth- 
ing happened.    All  the  bells  of  all  the  churches  rang  as 


356  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


usual.  A  attle  parliament  of  dogs  assembled  in  the 
open  space,  and  chased  each  other,  in  and  out  among  the 
soldiers.  Fierce-looking  Romans  of  the  lowest  class,  in 
blue  cloaks,  russet  cloaks,  and  rags  uncloaked,  came  and 
went,  and  talked  together.  Women  and  children  flut- 
tered, on  the  skirts  of  the  scanty  crowd.  One  large 
muddy  spot  was  left  quite  bare,  like  a  bald  place  on  £i 
man's  head.  A  cigar  merchant,  with  an  earthen  pot  of 
charcoal  ashes  in  one  hand,  went  up  and  down,  crying 
his  wares.  A  pastry -merchant  divided  his  attention  be- 
tween the  scaffold  and  his  customers.  Boys  tried  to 
climb  up  walls,  and  tumbled  dow^n  again.  Priests  and 
monks  elbowed  a  passage  for  themselves  among  the 
people,  and  stood  on  tiptoe  for  a  sight  of  the  knife  : 
then  went  away.  Artists,  in  inconceivable  hats  of  the 
middle  ages,  and  beards  (thank  heaven  !)  of  no  age  at  all, 
flashed  picturesque  scowls  about  them  from  their  sta^ 
tions  in  the  throng.  One  gentleman  (connected  with  th^ 
fine  arts,  I  presume)  went  up  and  down  in  a  pair  of  Hes- 
sian-boots, with  a  red  beard  hanging  dovv^n  on  his  breast, 
and  his  long  and  bright  red  hair,  plaited  in  two  tails, 
one  on  each  side  of  his  head  ;  which  fell  over  his  shoul- 
ders in  front  of  him,  very  nearly  to  his  waist,  and  were 
carefully  entwined  and  braided  ! 

Eleven  o'clock  struck  ;  and  still  nothing  happened.  A 
rumour  got  about,  among  the  crowd,  that  the  criminal 
would  not  confess  ;  in  which  case,  the  priests  would  keep 
him  until  the  Ave  Maria  (sunset)  ;  for  it  is  their  merciful 
custom  never  finally  to  turn  the  crucifix  away  from  a  man 
at  that  pass,  as  one  refusing  to  be  shriven,  and  conse- 
quently a  sinner  abandoned  of  the  Saviour,  until  then. 
People  began  to  drop  off.  The  officers  shrugged  their 
shoulders  and  looked  doubtful.  The  dragoons,  wh© 
eame  riding  up  below  our  window,  every  now  and  then,  to 
order  an  unlucky  hackney-coach  or  cart  away,  as  soon  as 
it  had  comfortably  established  itself  and  was  covered 
with  exulting  people  (but  never  before),  became  imperi- 
ous, and  quick-tempered.  The  bald  place  hadn't  a  strag- 
gling hair  upon  it  ;  and  the  corpulent  oflicer,  crowning 
the  perspective,  took  a  world  of  snuff. 

Suddenly,  there  was  a  noise  of  trumpets.  Atten- 
tion ! "  was  among  the  foot-soldiers  instantly.  They 
were  marched  up  to  the  scaffold  and  formed  round  it. 
The  dragoons  galloped  to  their  nearer  stations  too.  The 
guillotine  became  the  centre  of  a  wood  of  bristling  bay- 
onets and  shining  sabres.  The  people  closed  round 
nearer,  on  the  flank  of  the  soldiery.  A  long  straggling, 
stream  of  men  and  boys,  who  had  accompanied  the  pro- 
cession from  the  prison,  came  pouring  into  the  open 
space.  The  bald  spot  was  scarcely  distinguishable  from 
the  rest     The  cigar  and  pastry -merchants  resigned  all 


riCTUKES  FROM  ITALY. 


thoughts  of  business,  f^r  the  moment,  and  abandoning 
themselves  wholly  to  pleasure,  g  t  good  situations  in  the 
crowd.  The  perspective  ended,  now,  in  a  croop  ira- 
goons.  A.nd  the  corpulent  officer,  sword  in  hand,  looked, 
hard  at  a  church  close  to  him,  which  he  could  see,  but 
we,  the  crowd,  could  not. 

After  a  short  delay,  some  monks  were  seen  approach- 
ing to  the  scaffold  from  this  church  ;  and  above  their 
heads,  coming  on  slowly  z^nd  gloomily,  the  sffigy  of 
Christ  upon  the  cross,  canopied  with  black.  This  was 
carried  round  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  to  che  front,  and 
turned  towards  the  criminal,  that  lie  might  see  \t  to  the 
last.  It  was  hardly  in  its  place,  when  he  appeared  on 
the  platform,  bare-footed  ;  his  hands  bound  ;  and  with 
the  collar  and  neck  of  his  shirt  cut  away,  almost  to  the 
shoulder.  A  young  man — six-and- twenty — vigorously 
made,  and  well-shaped.  Face  pale  ;  small  dark  mous- 
tache ;  and  dark  brown  hair. 

He  had  refused  to  confess,  it  seemed,  without  first 
having  his  wife  brought  to  see  him  ;  and  they  had  «ent 
an  escort  for  her,  which  had  occasioned  the  delay. 

He  immediately  kneeled  iown,  below  the  knife.  His 
neck  fitting  into  a  hole,  made  for  the  purpose,  in  a  cross 
plank,  was  shut  down,  by  another  plank  above  ;  exactly 
like  the  pillory.  Immediately  below  him  was  a  leathern 
bag.    And  into  it  his  head  rolled  instantly. 

The  executioner  was  holding  it  by  the  hair,  and  walk- 
ing with  it  round  the  scaffold,  showing  it  to  the  people, 
before  one  quite  knew  that  the  knife  had  fallen  heavily, 
and  with  a  rattling  sound. 

When  it  had  travelled  round  the  four  sides  of  the 
scaffold  it  was  set  upon  a  pole  in  front — a  little  patch 
of  black  and  white,  for  the  long  street  to  stare  at,  and 
the  flies  to  settle  on.  The  eyes  were  turned  upward,  as 
if  he  had  avoided  the  sight  of  the  leathern  bag,  and 
looked  to  the  crucifix.  Every  tinge  and  hue  of  life  had 
left  it  in  that  instant.  It  was  dull,  cold,  livid,  wax. 
The  body  also. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  blood.  When  we  left  the 
window,  and  went  close  up  to  the  scaffold,  it  was  very 
dirty  ;  one  of  the  two  men  who  were  throwing  water 
over  it,  turning  to  help  the  other  lift  the  body  into  a 
phell,  picked  his  way  as  through  mire.  A  strange  ap- 
pearance was  the  apparent  annihilation  of  the  neck.  The 
head  was  taken  off  so  close,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  knif^ 
had  narrowly  escaped  crushing  the  jaw,  or  shaving  off 
the  ear  ;  and  the  body  looked  as  if  there  were  nothing 
left  above  the  shoulder. 

Nobody  cared,  or  was  at  all  affected.  There  was  no 
manifestation  of  disgust,  or  pity  or  indignation,  or  sor* 
tow.  My  empty  pockets  were  tried,  several  times,  in 
TI  Vol.  1^ 


258  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  crowd  immediately  below  tlie  scaffold,  as  the  corpse 
was  being  put  into  its  coffin.  It  was  an  ugly,  filthy, 
careless,  sickening  spectacle  ;  meaning  nothing  but 
butchery  beyond  the  momentary  interest,  to  one  wretched 
actor.  Yes  !  Such  a  sight  has  one  moaning  and  one 
warning.  Let  me  not  forget  it.  The  speculators  in  tbp 
lottery,  station  themselves  at  favourable  points  for 
counting  the  gouts  of  blood  that  spirt  out,  here  or  there; 
and  buy  that  number.  It  is  pretty  sure  to  have  a  run 
upon  it. 

The  body  was  carted  away  in  due  time,  the  knife 
cleansed,  the  scaffold  taken  down,  and  all  the  hideous 
apparatus  removed.  The  executioner:  an  outlaw  ex  officio 
(what  a  satire  on  the  Punishment!)  who  dare  not,  for  his 
life,  cross  the  Bridge  of  St.  Angelo  but  to  do  his  work  ; 
retreated  to  his  lair,  and  the  show  was  over. 

At  the  head  of  the  collections  in  the  palaces  of  Rome, 
the  Vatican,  of  course,  with  its  treasures  of  art,  its  enor« 
mous  galleries,  and  staircases,  and  suites  upon  suites  of 
immense  chambers,  ranks  higliest  and  stands  foremost. 
Many  most  noble  statues,  and  wonderful  pictures,  are 
there  ;  nor  is  it  heresy  to  say  that  there  is  a  considera- 
ble amount  of  rubbish  there,  too.  When  any  old  piece 
of  sculpture  dug  out  of  the  ground,  finds  a  place  in  the 
gallery  because  it  is  c  A,  and  without  any  reference  to 
its  intrinsic  merits  :  and  finds  admirers  by  the  hundred, 
because  it  is  there,  and  for  no  other  reason  on  earth  : 
there  will  be  no  lack  of  objects,  very  indifferent  in  the 
plain  eyesight  of  any  one  who  employs  so  vulgar  a  prop- 
erty, when  he  may  wear  Tie  spectacles  of  Cant  for  less 
than  nothing,  and  establish  himself  as  a  man  of  taste 
for  the  mere  trouble  of  putting  them  on. 

I  unreservedly  confess,  for  myself,  that  I  cannot  leave 
my  natural  perception  of  what  is  natural  and  true,  at  a 
palace  door,  in  Italy  or  elsewhere,  as  I  should  leave  my 
shoes  if  I  were  travelling  in  the  East.  I  cannot  forget 
chat  there  are  certain  expressions  of  face,  natural  to  cer- 
tain passions,  and  as  unchangeable  in  their  nature  as  the 
gait  of  a  lion,  or  the  flight  of  an  eagle.  I  cannot  dis- 
iniss  from  my  certain  knowledge,  such,  common-place 
facts  as  the  ordinary  proportions  of  men's  arms,  and  legs, 
and  heads  ;  and  when  I  meet  with  performances  that  do 
Violence  to  these  experiences  and  recollections^  no  mat- 
ter where  they  may  be,  I  cannot  honestly  admire  them, 
and  think  it  best  to  say  so  ;  in  spite  of  high  critical  advice 
that  we  should  sometimes  feign  an  admiration,  though 
we  have  it  not. 

Therefore,  I  freely  acknowledge  that  when  I  see  a 
Jolly  young  Waterman  representing  a  cherubim,  or  a 
Barclay  and  Perkins's  Drayman  depicted  as  an  Evangel- 
ist, I  see  nothing  to  commend  or  admire  in  the  perform- 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


259 


ance,  however  great  its  reputed  Painter.  Neither  am  I 
partial  to  libellous  Angels,  who  play  on  fiddles  and  bas- 
soons, for  the  edification  of  sprawling  monks  apparently 
fn  liquor.  Nor  to  those  Monsieur  Tonsons  of  galleries. 
Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Sebastian  ;  both  of  whom  I  sub- 
tnit  Ghoul(J  have  very  uncommon  and  rare  merits,  as 
works  of  art,  to  justify  their  compound  multiplication  by 
Italian  Painters. 

It  seems  to  me,  too,  that  the  indiscriminate  and  deter- 
mined raptures  in  which  some  critics  indulge,  is  incom- 
patible with  the  true  appreciation  of  the  really  grv^afc  and 
transcendent  works.  I  cannot  imagine,  for  example, 
how  the  resolute  champion  of  undeserving  pictures  can 
soar  to  the  amazing  beauty  of  Titian's  great  picture  of  the 
Assumption  of  the  Virgin  at  Venice  ;  or  how  the  man 
who  is  truly  affected  by  the  sublimity  of  that  exquisite 
production,  or  who  is  truly  sensible  of  the  beauty  of 
Tintoretto's  great  picture  of  the  Assembly  of  the  Blessed 
in  the  same  place,  can  discern  in  Michael  Angclo's  Last 
Judgment,  in  the  Sistine  chapel,  any  general  idea,  or 
one  pervading  thought,  in  harmony  with  the  stupend- 
ous subject.  He  who  will  contemplate  Raphael's  mas- 
terpiece, the  Transfiguration,  and  will  go  away  into 
another  chamber  of  that  same  Vatican,  and  contemplate 
another  design  of  Raphael,  representing  (in  incredible 
caricature)  the  miraculous  stopping  of  a  great  fire  by 
Leo  the  Fourth — and  who  will  say  that  he  admires  them 
both,  as  works  of  extraordinary  genius — must,  as  I  think, 
be  wanting  in  his  powers  of  perception  in  one  of  the  two 
instances,  and,  probably,  in  the  high  and  lofty  one. 

It  is  easy  to  suggest  a  doubt,  but  I  have  a  great  doubt 
whether,  sometimes,  the  rules  of  art  are  not  too  strictly 
"•bserved,  and  whether  it  is  quite  well  or  agreeable  that 
we  should  know  beforehand,  where  this  figure  will  he 
turning  round,  and  where  that  figure  will  be  lying 
down,  and  where  there  will  be  drapery  in  folds,  and  so 
forth.  When  I  observe  heads  inferior  to  the  subject,  in 
pictures  of  merit,  in  Italian  galleries,  I  do  not  attach 
that  reproach  to  the  Painter,  for  I  have  a  suspicion  that 
these  great  men,  who  were,  of  necessitv,  very  much  in 
the  hands  of  monks  and  priests,  painted  monks  and 
priests  a  great  deal  too  often.  I  frequently  see,  in  pic- 
tures of  I  power,  heads  quite  below  the  story  and  the 
painters  •  *od  invariably  observe  that  those  heads  are 
of  the  Convent  stamp,  and  have  their  counterparts 
among  the  Convent  inmates  of  this  hour  ;  so,  I  have  set- 
tled with  myself  that,  m  such  cases,  the  lameness  was 
not  with  the  painter,  but  with  the  vanity  and  ignorance 
of  certain  of  his  employers,  who  would  be  apostles — on 
canvas,  at  all  events. 

The  exquisite  grace  and  beauty  of  Canova's  statues  • 
iiie  wonderful  gravity  and  repose  of  many  of  the  ancien^ 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


works  in  sculpture,  both  in  the  Capitol  and  the  Vatican  ; 
and  the  strength  and  fire  of  many  others  ;  are,  in  their 
different  ways^  beyond  all  reach  of  words.  They  are 
especially  impressive  and  delighti^ul,  after  the  works  of 
Bernini  and  his  disciples,  in  which  the  churches  of 
Rome,  from  St.  Peter's  downward,  abound  ;  and  which 
are,  I  verily  believe,  the  most  detestable  class  of  pro- 
ductions in  the  wide  world.  I  would  infinitely  rather 
(as  mere  works  of  art)  look  upon  the  three  deities  of  the 
Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future,  in  the  Chinese  Col- 
lection, than  upon  the  best  of  these  breezy  maniacs  ; 
whose  every  fold  of  drapery  is  blown  inside-out ;  whose 
smallest  vein,  or  artery,  is  as  big  as  an  ordinary  forefinger; 
v/hose  hair  is  like  a  nest  of  lively  snakes  ;  and  whose  atti- 
tudes put  all  other  extravagance  to  shame.  Insomuch  that 
I  do  honestly  believe  there  can  be  no  place  in  the  world, 
where  such  intolerable  abortions,  begotten  of  the  sculp- 
tor's chisel,  are  to  be  found  in  such  profusion,  as  in 
Rome. 

There  is  a  fine  collection  of  Egyptian  antiquities,  in 
the  Vatican  ;  and  the  ceilings  of  the  rooms  in  which 
they  are  arranged,  are  painted  to  represent  a  star-light 
sky  in  the  Desert.  It  may  seem  an  odd  idea,  but  it  is 
very  effective.  The  grim,  half-human  monsters  from 
the  temples,  look  more  grim  and  monstrous  underneath 
the  deep  dark  blue  ;  it  sheds  a  strange  uncertain  gloomy 
air  on  even  thing — a  mystery  adapted  to  the  objects ; 
and  you  lea^e  them,  as  you  find  them,  shrouded  in  a 
solemn  night. 

In  the  private  palaces,  pictures  are  seen  to  the  best 
advantage.  There  are  seldom  so  many  in  one  place  that 
the  attention  need  become  distracted,  or  the  eye  con- 
fused. You  see  them  very  leisurely  ;  and  are  rarely  in- 
terrupted  by  a  crowd  of  people.  There  are  portraits  in- 
numerable, by  Titian,  and  Rembrandt,  and  Vandyke  ; 
heads  by  Guido,  and  Domenichino,  and  Carlo  Dolci  ; 
various  subjects  by  Correggio,  and  Murillo,  and  Raphael, 
and  Salvator  Rosa,  and  Spagnoletto — many  of  which  it 
would  be  difficult,  indeed,  to  praise  too  highly,  or  to 
praise  enough  ;  such  is  their  tenderness  and  grace  ;  their 
noble  elevation,  purity,  and  beauty. 

The  portrait  of  Beatrice  di  Cenci,  in  the  Palazzo  Ber- 
berini,  is  a  picture  almost  impossible  to  be  forgotten. 
Through  the  transcendent  sweetness  and  beauty  of  the 
face,  tliere  is  a  something  shining  out,  that  haunts  me. 
I  see  it  now,  as  I  see  this  paper,  or  my  pen.  The  head 
is  loosely  draped  in  white  ;  th^  light  hair  falling  down 
below  the  linen  folds.  She  has  turned  suddenly  towards 
you  ;  and  there  is  an  expression  in  the  eyes — although 
they  are  very  tender  and  gentle — as  if  the  wildness  of  a 
momentary  terror,  or  distraction,  had  been  struggled 


PICTURES  FROM  tTALY. 


261 


with  and  overcome,  that  instant ;  and  nothing  but  a  celes 
tial  hope,  and  a  beautiful  sorrow,  and  a  desolate  earthly 
helplessness  remained.  Some  stories  say  that  Guido 
painted  it,  the  night  before  her  execution  ;  some  other 
stories,  that  he  painted  it  from  memory,  after  having 
seen  her,  on  her  way  to  the  scaffold.  I  am  willing  to 
believe  that,  as  you  see  her  on  his  canvas,  so  she  turned 
towards  him,  in  the  crowd,  from  the  first  sight  of  the 
axe,  and  stamped  upon  his  mind  a  look  which  he  has 
stamped  on  mine  as  though  I  had  stood  beside  him  in  the 
concourse.  The  guilty  palace  of  the  Cenci  ;  blighting  a 
whole  quarter  of  the  town,  as  it  stands  withering  away 
by  grains  ;  had  that  face,  to  my  fancy,  in  its  dismal 
porch,  and  at  its  black  blind  windows,  and  flitting  up 
and  down  its  dreary  stairs,  and  growing  out  of  the  dark- 
ness of  its  ghostly  galleries.  The  History  is  written  in 
the  Painting  ;  written  in  the  dying  girl's  face,  by 
Nature's  own  hand.  And  oh  !  how  in  that  one  touch  she 
puts  to  flight  (instead  of  making  kin)  the  puny  world 
that  claim  to  be  related  to  her,  in  right  of  poor  conven- 
tional forgeries  ! 

I  saw  in  the  Palazzo  Spada,  the  statue  of  Pompey ;  the 
statue  at  whose  base  Caesar  fell.  A  stern,  tremendous 
figure  I  I  imagined  one  of  greater  finish  :  of  the  last  re- 
finement :  full  of  delicate  touches  :  losing  its  distinctness, 
in  the  giddy  eyos  of  one  whose  blood  was  ebbing  before 
it,  and  settling  into  some  such  rigid  majesty  as  this,  as 
Death  came  creeping  over  the  upturned  face. 

The  excursions  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Rome  are 
charming,  and  would  be  full  of  interest  were  it  only  for 
the  changing  views  they  afford,  of  the  wild  Campagna. 
But,  every  inch  of  ground,  in  every  direction,  is  rich  in 
associations,  and  in  natural  beauties.  There  is  Albano, 
with  its  lovely  lake  and  wooded  shore,  and  with  its  wine, 
that  certainly  has  not  improved  since  the  days  of  Horace, 
and  in  these  times  hardly  justifies  his  panegyric.  There 
is  squalid  Tivoli,  with  the  river  Anio,  diverted  from  its 
course,  and  plunging  down,  headlong,  some  eighty  feet 
in  search  of  it.  With  its  picturesque  Temple  of  the 
Sibyl,  perched  high  on  a  crag ;  its  minor  waterfalls 
glancing  and  sparkling  in  the  sun  ;  and  one  good  cavern 
yawning  darkly,  where  the  river  takes  a  fearful  plunge 
and  shoots  on,  low  down  under  beetling  rocks.  There, 
too,  is  the  Villa  d'Este,  deserted  and  decaying  among 
groves  of  melancholy  pine  and  cypress  trees,  where  it 
seems  to  lie  in  state.  Then,  there  is  Frascati,  and,  on 
the  steep  above  it,  the  ruins  of  Tusculum,  where  Cicero 
lived,  and  wrote,  and  adorned  his  favourite  house  (gome 
fragments  of  it  may  yet  be  seen  there),  and  where  Cato 
was  born.  We  saw  its  ruined  amphitheatre  on  a  grey 
dull  day,  when  a  shrill  March  wind  was  blowing,  and 


262 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS 


when  tlie  scattered  stones  of  the  old  city  lay  strewi^ 
about  the  lonely  eminence,  as  desolate  and  dead  as  the 
ashes  of  a  long  extinguished  fire. 

One  day,  we  walked  out,  a  little  party  of  three,  to 
Albino,  fourteen  miles  distant ;  possessed  by  a  great  de- 
sire to  go  there,  by  the  ancient  Appian  way,  long  since 
ruined  and  overgrown.  We  started  at  half  past  seven 
in  the  morning,  and  within  an  hour  or  so,  were  out  upon 
the  open  Campagna.  For  twelve  miles,  we  went  climb- 
ing on,  over  an  unbroken  succession  of  mounds,  and 
heaps,  and  hills,  of  ruin.  Tombs  and  temples,  over- 
thrown and  prostrate  ;  small  fragments  of  columns, 
friezes,  pediments  ;  great  blocks  of  granite  and  marble ; 
mouldering  arches,  grass-grown  and  decayed ;  ruin 
enough  to  build  a  spacious  city  from  ;  lay  strewn  about 
us.  Sometimes,  loose  walls,  built  up  from  these  frag- 
ments by  the  shepherds,  came  across  our  path  ;  some- 
times, a  ditch  between  two  mounds  o£  broken  stones, 
obstructed  our  progress ;  sometimes,  the  fragments 
themselves,  rolling  from  beneath  our  feet,  made  it  a 
toilsome  matter  to  advance  ;  but  it  was  always  ruin. 
Now,  we  tracked  a  piece  of  the  old  road,  above  the 
ground  ;  now  traced  it,  underneath  a  grassy  covering,  as 
if  that  were  its  grave  ;  but  all  the  way  was  ruin.  In  the 
distance,  ruined  aqueducts  went  stalking  on  their  giant 
course  along  the  plain  ;  and  every  breath  of  wind  that 
swept  towards  us,  stirred  early  flowers  and  grasses, 
springing  up,  spontaneously,  on  miles  of  ruin.  The  un- 
seen larks  above  us,  who  alone  disturbed  the  awful  si- 
lence, had  their  nests  in  ruin  ;  and  the  fierce  herdsmen, 
clad  in  sheepskins,  who  now  and  then  scowled  out  upon 
us  from  their  sleeping  nooks,  were  housed  in  ruin.  The 
aspect  of  the  desolate  Campagna  in  one  direction,  where 
it  was  most  level,  reminded  me  of  an  American  prairie  ; 
but  w^hat  is  the  solitude  of  a  region  where  men  have 
never  dwelt,  to  that  of  a  Desert,  where  a  mighty  race 
have  left  their  foot-prints  in  the  earth  from  which  they 
have  vanished  ;  where  the  resting-places  of  their  Dead, 
have  fallen  like  their  Dead  ;  and  the  broken  hour-glass 
of  Time  is  but  a  heap  of  idle  dust !  Returning,  by  the 
road,  at  sunset !  and  looking,  from  the  distance,  on  the 
course  we  had  taken  in  the  morning,  I  almost  felt  (as  I 
had  felt  when  I  first  saw  it,  at  that  hour)  as  if  the  sun 
would  never  rise  again,  but  looked  its  last,  that  night, 
upon  a  ruined  world. 

To  come  again  on  Rome,  by  moonlight,  after  such  an 
expedition,  is  a  fitting  close  to  such  a  day.  The  narrow 
streets,  devoid  of  footways,  and  choked,  in  every  obscure 
comer,  by  heaps  of  dunghill -rubbish,  contrast  so  strongly, 
in  their  cramped  dimensions,  and  their  filth,  and  dark- 
uess,  with  the  broad  square  before  some  haughty  church  r 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


263 


in  the  centre  of  <vhich,  a  hieroglyphic -covered  obelisk, 
brought  from  Egypt  in  the  days  of  the  Emperors,  looks 
strangely  on  the  foreign  scene  about  it ;  or  perhaps  aa 
dncien»;  pillar,  with  its  honoured  statue  overthrown, 
:;upports  a  Christian  saint  :  Marcus  Aurelius  giving 
place  to  Paul,  and  Trajan  to  St.  Peter.  Then,  there  are 
the  ponderous  buildings  reared  from  the  spoliation  of 
the  Coliseum,  shutting  out  the  moon,  like  mountains  : 
while  here  and  there,  are  broken  arches  and  rent  walls, 
through  which  it  gushes  freely,  as  the  life  comes  pouring 
from  a  wound.  The  little  town  of  miserable  houses, 
walled,  and  shut  in  by  barred  gates,  is  the  quarter  where 
the  Jews  are  locked  up  nightly,  when  the  clock  strikes 
eight — a  miserable  place,  densely  populated,  and  reek- 
ing with  bad  odours,  but  where  the  people  are  indus- 
trious and  money -getting.  In  the  daytime,  as  you  make 
your  way  along  the  narrow  streets,  you  ^ee  them  all  at 
work  :  upon  the  pavement,  oftener  than  in  their  dark 
and  frouzy  shops  :  furbishing  old  clothes,  and  driving 
bargains. 

Crossing  from  these  patches  of  thick  darkness,  out  in- 
to the  moon  once  more,  the  fountain  of  Trevi,  welling 
from  a  hundred  jets,  and  rolling  over  mimic  rocks,  is 
silvery  to  the  eye  and  ear.  In  the  narrow  little  throat 
of  street,  beyond,  a  booth,  dressed  out  with  flaring  lamps, 
and  boughs  of  trees,  attracts  a  group  of  sulky  Romans 
round  its  smoking  coppers  of  hot  broth,  and  cauliflower 
stew  ;  its  trays  of  fried  fish,  and  its  flasks  of  wine.  As 
you  rattle  round  the  sharply-twisting  corner,  a  lumber* 
ing  sound  is  heard.  The  coachman  stops  abruptly,  and 
uncovers,  as  a  van  comes  slowly  by,  preceded  by  a  man 
who  bears  a  large  cross  ;  by  a  torch- bearer  ;  and  a  priestj 
the  latter  chaunting  as  he  goes.  It  is  the  Dead  Cart, 
with  the  bodies  of  the  poor,  on  their  way  to  burial  in 
the  Sacred  Field  outside  the  walls,  where  they  will  be 
thrown  into  the  pit  that  will  be  covered  with  a  stone  to- 
night, and  sealed  up  for  a  year. 

But  whether,  in  this  ride,  you  pass  by  obelisks,  or 
columns  :  ancient  temples,  theatres,  houses,  porticoes, 
or  forums  :  it  is  strange  to  see,  how  every  fragment, 
whenever  it  is  possible,  has  been  blended  into  some 
modern  structure,  and  made  to  serve  some  modem  pur- 
pose— a  wall,  a  dwelling-place,  a  granary,  a  stable — 
some  use  for  which  it  never  was  designed,  and  associated 
with  which  it  cannot  otherwise  than  lamely  assort.  It 
is  stranger  still,  to  see  how  many  ruins  of*  the  old  my- 
thology :  how  many  fragments  of  obsolete  legend  and 
observance  :  have  been  incorporated  into  the  worship  of 
christian  altars  here  ;  and  how,  in  numberless  respects, 
the  false  faith  and  the  true  ctre  fused  into  a  monstrous 
union. 


264 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


From  one  part  of  the  city,  looking  out  beyond  the 
walls,  a  squat  and  stunted  pyramid  (the  burial  place 
of  Caius  Cestius)  makes  an  opaque  triangle  in  the  moon- 
light. But,  to  an  English  traveller,  it  serves  to  mark 
the  grave  of  Shelley  too,  whose  ashes  lie  beneath  a  little 
garden  near  it.  Nearer  still,  almost  within  its  shadow, 
lie  the  bones  of  Keats,  whose  name  is  writ  in  water," 
that  shines  brightly  in  the  landscape  of  a  calm  Italian 
night. 

The  Holy  Week  in  Rome  is  supposed  to  offer  great 
attractions  to  all  visitors  :  but,  saving  for  the  sights  of 
Easter  Sunday,  I  would  counsel  those  who  go  to  Rome 
for  its  own  interest,  to  avoid  it  at  that  time.  The  cere- 
monies, in  general,  are  of  the  most  tedious  and  weari- 
some kind  ;  the  heat  and  crowd  at  every  one  of  them, 
painfully  oppressive  ;  the  noise,  hubbub,  and  confusion, 
quite  distracting.  We  abandoned  the  pursuit  of  these 
shows,  very  early  in  the  proceedings,  and  betook  our- 
selves to  the  Ruins  again.  But,  we  plunged  into  the 
crowd  for  a  share  of  the  best  of  the  sights ;  and  what  we 
saw  I  will  describe  to  you. 

At  the  Sistine  chapel,  on  the  Wednesday,  we  saw  very 
little,  for  by  the  time  we  reached  it  (though  we  were 
early)  the  besieging  crowd  had  filled  it  to  the  door,  and 
overflowed  into  the  adjoining  hall,  where  they  were 
struggling,  and  squeezing,  and  mutually  expostulating, 
and  making  great  rushes  every  time  a  lady  was  brought 
out  faint,  as  if  at  least  fifty  people  could  be  accommo- 
dated in  her  vacant  standing-room.  Hanging  in  the  door- 
way of  the  chapel,  was  a  heavy  curtain,  and  this  curtain, 
some  twenty  people  nearest  to  it,  in  their  anxiety  to  hear 
the  chanting  of  the  Miserere,  were  continually  plucking 
at,  in  opposition  to  each  other,  that  it  migl>t  not  fall 
down  and  stifle  the  sound  of  the  voices.  The  conset 
quence  was,  that  it  occasioned  the  most  extraordinary 
confusion,  and  seemed  to  wind  itself  about  the  unwary, 
like  a  Serpent.  Now,  a  lady  was  wrapped  up  in  it,  and 
couldn't  be  unwound.  Now,  the  voice  of  a  stifling  gen- 
tleman was  heard  inside  it,  beseeching  to  be  let  out. 
Now,  two  muffled  arms,  no  man  could  say  of  which  sex, 
struggled  in  it  as  in  a  sack.  Now,  it  was  carried  by  a 
rush,  bodily  overhead  into  the  chapel,  like  an  awning. 
Now,  it  came  out  the  other  way,  and  blinded  one  of  the 
Pope's  Swiss  Guard  who  had  arrived,  that  moment,  to 
set  things  to  rights. 

Being  seated  at  a  little  distance,  among  two  or  three 
of  the  Pope's  gentlemen,  who  were  very  weary  and 
counting  the  minutes — as  perhaps  His  Holiness  was  too— 
we  had  better  opportunities  of  observing  this  eccentric 
entertainment,  than  of  hearing  the  Miserere.  Some- 


PICTURES  FKOM  ITALY. 


265 


times,  tliere  was  a  swell  of  mourivful  volce?^  that  sounded 
very  pathetic  and  sad,  and  died  away,  into  a  low  strain 
again  ;  but  that  was  all  we  heard. 

At  another  time,  there  was  the  Exhibition  of  the  Relics 
in  Saint  Peter's,  which  took  place  at  between  six  and 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  was  striking  from  the 
cathedral  being  dark  and  gloomy,  and  having  a  great 
many  people  in  it.  The  place  into  which  the  relics  were 
brought,  one  by  one,  by  a  party  of  three  priests,  was  a 
high  balcony  near  the  chief  altar.  This  was  the  only 
lighted  part  of  the  church.  There  are  always  a  hun- 
dred and  twelve  lamps  burning  near  the  altar,  and  there 
were  two  tall  tapers,  besides,  near  the  black  statue  of 
St.  Peter  ;  but  these  were  nothing  in  such  an  immense 
edifice.  The  gloom,  and  the  general  upturning  of  faces 
to  the  balcony,  and  the  prostration  of  true  believers  on 
the  pavement,  as  shining  objects,  like  pictures  or  look- 
ing-glasses, were  brought  out  and  shown,  had  something 
effective  in  it,  despite  the  very  preposterous  manner  in 
which  they  were  held  up  for  the  general  edification, 
and  the  great  elevation  at  which  they  were  displayed ; 
which  one  w^ould  think  rather  calculated  to  diminish 
the  comfort  derivable  from  a  full  conviction  of  their  be- 
ing genuine. 

On  the  Thursday,  we  went  to  see  the  Pope  convey  the 
Sacrament  from  the  Sistine  chapel,  to  deposit  it  in  the 
Capella  Paolina,  another  chapel  in  the  Vatican  ; — a  cere- 
mony emblematical  of  the  entombment  of  the  Saviour 
before  His  Resurrection.  We  waited  in  a  great  gallery 
with  a  great  crowd  of  people  (three-fourths  of  them  Eng^ 
lish)  for  an  hour  or  so,  while  they  were  chaunting  the 
Miserere,  in  the  Sistine  chapel  again.  Both  chapels 
opened  out  of  the  gallery  ;  and  the  general  attention  was 
concentrated  on  the  occasional  opening  and  shutting  of 
the  door  of  the  one  for  which  the  Pope  was  ultimately 
bound.  None  of  these  openings  disclosed  anything  more 
tremendous  than  a  man  on  a  ladder,  lighting  a  great 
quantity  of  candles  ;  but  at  each  and  every  opening, 
there  was  a  terrific  rush  made  at  this  ladder  and  this 
man,  something  like  (I  should  think)  a  charge  of  the 
heavy  British  cavalry  at  Waterloo.  The  man  was  never 
brought  down,  however,  nor  the  ladder  ;  for  it  perfoijned 
the  strangest  antics  in  the  w^orld  among  the  crowd — 
where  it  was  carried  by  the  man,  when  the  candles  w^ere 
all  lighted  ;  and  finally  it  was  stuck  up  against  the  gal- 
lery  wall,  in  a  very  disorderly  manner,  just  before  the 
opening  of  the  other  chapel,  and  the  commencement  of  a 
new  chaunt,  announced  the  approach  of  his  Holiness. 
At  thi-s  crisis,  the  soldiers  of  the  guard,  who  had  been 
poking  the  crowd  into  all  sorts  of  shapes,  formed  down 


266  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  gallery :  and  the  procession  came  up,  between  the 
two  lines  they  made. 

There  were  a  few  choristers,  and  then  a  great  many 
priests,  walking  two  and  two,  and  carrying — the  good- 
looking  priests  at  least — their  lighted  tapers,  so  as  to 
throw  the  light  with  a  good  effect  upon  their  faces  :  for 
the  room  was  darkened.  Those  who  were  not  handsome, 
or  who  had  not  long  beards,  carried  their  tapers  anyhow, 
and  abandonea  themselves  to  spiritual  contemplations. 
Meanwhile,  the  chaunting  was  very  monotonous  and 
dreary.  The  procession  passed  on,  slowly,  into  the 
chapel,  and  the  drone  of  voices  went  on,  and  came  on, 
with  it,  until  the  Pope  himself  appeared,  walking  under 
a  white  satin  canopy,  and  bearing  the  covered  Sacramens^ 
in  both  hands  ;  cardinals  and  canons  clustered  roun^ 
him  making  a  brilliant  show.  The  soldiers  of  the  guard 
knelt  down  as  he  passed  ;  all  the  by-standers  bowed  ; 
and  so  he  passed  on  into  the  chapel :  the  white  satin 
canopy  being  removed  from  over  him  at  the  door,  and  a 
white  satin  parasol  hoisted  over  his  poor  old  head,  in 
place  of  it.  A  few  more  couples  brought  up  the  rear, 
and  passed  into  the  chapel  also.  Then,  the  chapel  door 
was  shut ;  and  it  was  all  over  ;  and  everybody  hurried 
off  headlong,  as  for  life  or  death,  to  see  something  else, 
and  say  it  wasn't  worth  the  trouble. 

I  think  the  most  popular  and  most  crowded  sight  (ex- 
cepting those  of  Easter  Sunday  and  Monday,  which  are 
open  to  all  classes  of  people)  was  the  Pope  washing  the 
feet  of  Thirteen  men,  representing  the  twelve  apostles, 
and  Judas  Iscariot.  The  place  in  which  this  pious  office 
is  performed,  is  one  of  the  chapels  of  St.  Peter's,  which 
is  gaily  decorated  for  the  occasion ;  the  thirteen  sitting 
"  all  of  a  row,"  on  a  very  high  bench,  and  looking  par- 
ticularly uncomfortable,  with  the  eyes  of  Heaven  knows 
how  many  English,  French,  Americans,  Swiss,  Germans, 
Russians,  Swedes,  Norwegians,  and  other  foreigners, 
nailed  to  their  faces  all  the  time.  They  are  robed  in 
white  ;  and  on  their  heads  they  wear  a  stiff  white  cap. 
like  a  large  English  porter-pot,  without  a  handle.  Each 
carries  in  his  hand  a  nosegay,  of  the  size  of  a  fine  cauli- 
flower ;  and  two  of  them,  on  this  occasion,  wore  specta- 
cles :  which,  remembering  the  characters  they  sustained, 
I  thought  a  droll  appendage  to  the  costume.  There  was 
a  great  eye  to  character.  St.  John  was  represented  by  a* 
good-looking  young  man.  St.  Peter,  by  a  grave-looking 
old  gentleman,  with  a  flowing  brown  beard  ;  and  Judas 
Iscariot  by  such  an  enormous  hypocrite  (I  could  not  make 
•»t,  though,  whether  the  expression  of  his  face  was  real 
or  assumed)  that  if  he  had  acted  the  part  to  the  death 
and  had  gone  away  and  hanged  himself,  he  would  have 
left  nothing  to  be  desired. 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


267 


As  the  two  large  boxes,  appropriated  to  ladies,  at  this 
Slight,  were  fulTto  the  throat,  and  getting  near  was  hope- 
less, we  posted  off,  along  with  a  great  crowd,  to  be  in 
time  at  the  Table,  where  the  Pope,  in  person,  waits  on 
!,hese  Thirteen ;  and  after  a  prodigious  struggle  at  the 
Vatican  staircase,  and  several  personal  conflicts  with  the 
Swiss  guard,  the  whole  crowd  swept  into  the  room.  It 
was  a  long  gallery  hung  with  drapery  of  white  and  red, 
with  another  great  box  for  ladies,  who  are  obliged  to 
dress  in  black  at  these  ceremonies,  and  to  wear  black 
veils),  a  royal  box  for  the  King  of  Naples,  and  his  party  ; 
and  the  table  itself,  which,  set  out  like  a  ball  supper,  and 
ornamented  with  golden  figures  of  the  real  apostles,  was 
arranged  on  an  elevated  ple^tform  on  one  side  of  the 
gallery.  The  counterfeit  apostles'  knives  and  forks 
weve  laid  out  on  that  side  of  the  table  which  was  nearest 
to  the  wall,  so  that  they  might  be  stared  at  again,  with- 
out let  or  hindrance. 

The  body  of  the  room  was  full  of  male  strangers  ;  the 
crowd  immense ;  the  heat  very  great ;  and  the  pressure 
sometimes  frightful.  It  was  at  its  height  when  the 
stream  came  pouring  in,  from  the  feet-washing  ;  and 
then  there  were  such  shrieks  and  outcries,  that  a  party 
of  Piedmontese  dragoons  went  to  the  rescue  of  the  Swiss 
guard,  and  helped  them  to  calm  the  tumult. 

The  ladies  were  particularly  ferocious,  in  their  struggles 
for  places.  One  lady  of  my  acquaintance  was  seized 
round  the  waist,  in  the  ladies'  box,  by  a  strong  matron, 
lind  hoisted  out  of  her  place  ;  and  there  was  another 
lady  (in  a  back  row  in  the  same  box)  who  improved  her 
position  by  sticking  a  large  pin  into  the  ladies  before 
her. 

The  gentlemen  about  me  were  remarkably  anxious  to 
see  what  was  on  the  table  ;  and  one  Englishman  seemed 
to  have  embarked  the  whole  energy  of  his  nature  in  the 
determination  to  discover  whether  there  was  any  mustard. 

By  Jupiter  there's  vinegar  ! "  I  heard  him  say  to  his 
friend,  after  he  had  stood  on  tiptoe  an  immense  time, 
and  had  been  crushed  and  beaten  on  all  sides.  **  And 
there's  oil  !  !  I  saw  them  distinctly,  in  cruets  I  Can  any 
gentleman,  in  front  there,  see  mustard  on  the  table? 
Sir,  will  you  oblige  me  !    Bo  you  see  a  Mustard-Pot  ?  " 

The  apostles  and  Jiidas  appearing  on  the  platform, 
after  much  expectation,  were  marshalled,  in  line,  in 
front  of  the  table,  with  Peter  at  the  top  ;  and  a  good  long 
istare  was  taken  at  them  by  the  company,  while  twelve 
of  them  took  a  long  smell  at  their  nosegays,  and  Judas 
— moving  his  lips  very  obtrusively — engaged  in  inward 
prayer.  Then,  the  Pope,  clad  in  a  scarlet  robe,  and 
wearing  on  his  head  a  skull-cap  of  white  satin,  appeared 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  Cardinals  and  other  digni- 
taries, and  took  in  his  hand  a  little  goldem  ewer,  from 


268  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKBNS 


which  he  poured  a  little  water  over  one  of  Peter's  hands, 
while  one  attendant  held  a  golden  basin ;  a  second,  a 
fine  cloth  ;  a  third,  Peter's  nosegay,  which  was  taken 
from  him  during  the  operation.  This  his  Holiness  per- 
formed, with  considerable  expedition,  on  every  man  in 
the  line  (Ju(fks,  I  observed,  to  be  particularly  overcome 
by  his  condescension) ;  and  then  the  whole  Thirteen  sat 
down  to  dinner.  Grace  said  by  the  Pope.  Peter  in  the 
chair. 

There  was  white  wine,  and  red  wine  :  and  the  dinner 
looked  very  good.  The  courses  appeared  in  portions, 
one  for  each  apostle  ;  and  these  being  presented  to  the 
Pope,  by  Cardinals  upon  their  knees,  were  by  him  handed 
to  the  Thirteen.  The  manner  in  which  Judas  grew  more 
white-livered  over  his  victuals,  and  languished,  with  his 
head  on  one  side,  as  if  he  had  no  appetite,  defies  all  de- 
scription. Peter  was  a  good,  sound,  old  man,  and  went 
in,  as  the  saying  is,  to  win  ;  "  eating  everything  that 
was  given  him  (he  got  the  best  :  being  first  in  the  row) 
and  saying  nothing  to  anybody.  The  dishes  appeared 
to  be  chiefly  composed  of  fish  and  vegetables.  The  Pope 
helped  the  thirteen  to  wine  also  ;  and,  during  the  whole 
dinner,  somebody  read  something  aloud,  out  of  a  large 
book — the  Bible,  I  presume — which  nobody  could  hear, 
and  to  which  nobody  paid  the  least  attention.  The  Cardi- 
nals, and  other  attendants,  smiled  to  each  other,  from  time 
to  time,  as  if  the  thing  were  a  great  farce  ;  and  if  they 
thought  so,  there  is  little  doubt  they  were  perfectly 
right.  His  Holiness  did  w^hat  he  had  to  do,  as  a  sensible 
man  gets  through  a  troublesome  ceremony,  and  seemed 
very  glad  when  it  was  all  over. 

The  Pilgrims'  Suppers  :  where  lords  and  ladies  waited 
on  the  Pilgrims,  in  token  of  humility,  and  dried  their 
feet  when  they  had  been  well  washed  by  deputy:  were 
very  attractive.  But,  of  all  the  many  spectacles  of 
dangerous  reliance  on  outward  observances,  in  themselves 
mere  empty  forms,  none  struck  me  half  so  much  as  the 
Scala  Santa,  or  Holy  Staircase,  which  I  saw  several  times, 
but  to  the  greatest  advantage,  or  disadvantage,  on  Good 
Friday. 

This  holy  staircase  is  composed  of  eight-and-twenty 
steps,  said  to  have  belonged  to  Pontius  Pilate's  house,  and 
to  be  the  identical  stairs  on  which  Our  Saviour  trod,  in 
coming  down  from  the  judgment-seat.  Pilgrims  ascend 
it,  only  on  their  knees.  It  is  steep  ;  and,  at  the  summit, 
is  a  chapel,  reported  to  be  full  of  relics  ;  into  which  they 
peep  through  some  iron  bars,  and  then  come  down  again, 
\)y  one  of  two  side  staircases,  which  are  not  sacred,  and 
may  be  walked  on. 

On  Good  Friday,  there  were,  on  a  moderate  computa- 
tion, a  hundred  people,  slowly  shufiling  up  these  stairs. 


PICTURES  PROM  ITALY. 


869 


on  their  knees,  at  one  time  ;  while  others,  who  were  go- 
ing  up,  or  had  come  down — and  a  few  who  had  done 
both,  and  were  going  up  again  for  the  second  time — stood 
loitering  in  the  porch  below,  where  an  old  gentleman  in 
a  sort  of  watch-box,  rattled  a  tin  canister,  with  a  slit  in 
the  top,  incessantly,  to  remind  them  that  he  took  the 
money.  The  majority  were  country-people,  male  and 
female.  There  were  four  or  five  Jesuit  priests,  however, 
and  some  half-dozen  well-dressed  women.  A  whole 
school  of  boys,  twenty  at  least,  were  about  half  way  up — 
evidently  enjoying  it  very  much.  They  were  all  wedged 
together,  pretty  closely  ;  but  the  rest  of  the  company 
gave  the  boys  as  wide  a  berth  as  possible,  in  consequence 
of  their  betraying  some  recklessness  in  the  management 
of  their  boots. 

I  never,  in  my  life,  saw  anything  at  once  so  ridiculous, 
and  so  unpleasant,  as  this  sight — ridiculous  in  the  ab- 
surd incidents  inseparable  from  it ;  and  unpleasant  in 
its  senseless  and  unmeaning  degradation.  There  are 
two  steps  to  begin  with,  and  then  a  rather  broad  landing. 
The  more  rigid  climbers  went  along  this  landing  on  their 
knees,  as  well  as  up  the  stairs  ;  and  the  figures  they  cut, 
in  their  shuffling  progress  over  the  level  surface,  no 
description  can  paint.  Then,  to  see  them  watch  their 
opportunity  from  the  porch,  and  cut  in  where  there  was 
a  place  next  the  wall !  And  to  see  one  man  with  an 
Kmbrella  (brought  on  purpose,  for  it  was  a  fine  day) 
hoisting  himself,  unlawfully,  from  stair  to  stair  !  And 
to  observe  a  demure  lady  of  fifty-five  or  so,  looking  back, 
every  now  and  then,  to  assure  herself  that  her  legs  were 
properly  disposed. 

There  were  such  odd  differences  in  the  speed  of  dif- 
ferent people,  too.  Some  got  on,  as  if  they  were  doing 
a  match  against  time  ;  others  stopped  to  say  a  prayer  on 
every  step.  This  man  touched  every  stair  with  his  fore- 
head, and  kissed  it  ;  that  man  scratched  his  head  all  the 
way.  The  boys  got  on  brilliantly,  and  were  up  and 
down  again  before  the  old  lady  had  accomplished  her 
half  dozen  stairs.  But  most  of  the  Penitents  came  down, 
very  sprightly  and  fresh,  as  having  done  a  real  good 
substantial  deed  which  it  would  take  a  good  deal  of  sin 
to  counterbalance  ;  and  the  old  gentleman  in  the  watch- 
box  was  down  upon  them  with  his  canister  while  they 
were  in  this  humour,  I  promise  you. 

As  if  such  a  progress  were  not  in  its  nature  inevitably 
droll  enough,  there  lay,  on  the  top  of  the  stairs,  a  wood- 
en figure  on  a  crucifix,  resting  on  a  sort  of  great  iron 
saucer  ;  so  rickety  and  unsteady,  that  whenever  an  en- 
thusiastic person  kissed  the  figure,  with  more  than  usual 
devotion,  or  threw  a  coin  into  the  saucer,  with  more 
than  common  readiness  (for  it  served  in  this  resnect  as 


270  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


a  second  or  supplementary  canister),  it  gave  a  great 
leap  and  rattle,  and  nearly  shook  the  attendant  Tamp 
'  ut :  horribly  frightening  the  people  further  down,  and 
trowing  the  guilty  party  into  unspeakable  embarrass- 
ment. 

On  Easter  Sunday,  as  well  as  on  the  preceding  Thurs- 
day, the  Pope  bestows  his  benediction  on  the  people, 
from  the  balcony  in  front  of  St.  Peter's.  This  Easter 
Sunday  was  a  day  so  bright  and  blue :  so  cloudless, 
balmy,  wonderfully  bright  :  that  all  the  previous  bad 
weather  vanished  from  the  recollection  in  a  moment.  I 
had  seen  the  Thursday's  Benediction  dropping  damply 
on  some  hundreds  of  umbrellas,  but  there  was  not  a 
sparkle  then,  in  all  the  hundred  fountains  of  Rome — 
such  fountains  as  they  are  ! — and  on  this  Sunday  morn 
ing,  they  were  runijing  diamonds.  The  miles  of  miser- 
able streets  through  which  we  drove  (compelled  to  a 
certain  course  by  the  Pope's  dragoons  :  the  Roman  police 
on  such  occasions)  were  so  full  of  colour,  that  nothing  in 
them  was  capable  of  wearing  a  faded  aspect.  The  com^ 
mon  people  came  out  in  their  gayest  dresses  ;  the  richer 
people  in  their  smartest  vehicles  ;  Cardinals  rattled  to 
the  church  of  the  Poor  Fishermen  in  their  state  car 
riages  ;  shabby  magnificence  flaunted  its  thread-bare 
liveries  and  tarnished  cocked  hats,  in  the  sun  ;  and 
every  coach  in  Rome  was  put  in  requisition  for  the 
Great  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's. 

One  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  people  were  there  at 
least!  Yet  there  was  ample  room.  How  many  carriages 
were  there,  I  don't  know  ;  yet  there  was  room  for  them 
too,  and  to  spare.  The  great  steps  of  the  church  were 
densely  crowded.  There  were  many  of  the  Contadini, 
from  Albano  (who  delight  in  red)  in  that  part  of  the 
square,  and  the  mingling  of  bright  colours  in  the 
crowd  was  beautiful.  Below  the  steps  the  troops  were 
ranged.  In  the  magnificent  proportions  of  the  place, 
they  looked  like  a  bed  of  flowers.  Sulky  Romans,  lively 
peasants  from  the  neighbouring  country,  groups  of  pil- 
grims from  distant  parts  of  Italy,  sight-seeing  foreigners 
of  all  nations,  made  a  murmur  in  the  clear  air,  like  so 
many  insects  ;  and  high  above  them  all,  plashing  and 
bubbling,  and  making  rainbow  colours  in  the  light,  the 
two  delicious  fountains  welled  and  tumbled  bountifully. 

A  kind  of  bright  carpet  was  hung  over  the  front  of  the 
balcony  ;  and  the  sides  of  the  great  window  were  be- 
decked with  crimson  drapery.  An  awning  was  stretched, 
too,  over  the  top,  to  screen  the  old  man  from  the  hot 
rays  of  the  sun.  As  noon  approached,  all  eyes  were 
turned  up  to  this  window.  In  due  time,  the  chair  was 
8een  approaching  to  the  front,  with  the  gigantic  fans  of 
peacock's  feathers,  close  behind.    The  doll  within  it  (for 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


271 


tbe  balcony  is  very  high)  then  rose  up,  and  stretched 
out  its  tiny  arms,  while  all  the  male  spectators  in 
the  square  uncovered,  and  some,  but  not  by  any  means 
the  greater  part,  kneeled  down.  The  guns  upon  the 
i-amparts  of  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo  proclaimed,  next 
moment,  that  the  benediction  was  given  ;  drums  beat; 
trumpets  sounded  ;  arms  clashed  ;  and  the  great  mass 
below,  suddenly  breaking  into  smaller  heaps,  and  scat- 
tering here  and  there  in  rills,  was  stirred  like  parti- 
coloured  sand. 

What  a  bright  noon  it  was,  as  we  rode  away  !  The 
Tiber  was  no  longer  yellow,  but  blue.  There  was  a 
blush  on  the  old  bridges,  that  made  them  fresh  and  hale 
again.  The  Pantheon,  with  its  majestic  front,  all  seam- 
ed and  furrowed  like  an  old  face,  had  summer  light  up- 
on its  battered  walls.  Every  squalid  and  desolate  hut 
in  the  Eternal  City  (bear  witness  every  grim  old  palace^ 
to  the  filth  and  misery  of  the  plebeian  neighbour  that  el- 
bows it,  as  certain  as  time  has  laid  its  grip  on  its  patrician 
head  !)  was  fresh  and  new  with  some  ray  of  the  sun. 
The  very  prison  in  the  crowded  street,  a  whirl  of  carri- 
ages and  people,  had  some  stray  sense  of  the  day^  drop- 
ping through  its  chinks  and  crevices  :  and  dismal  pris- 
oners who  could  not  wind  their  faces  round  the  barricad- 
ing of  the  blocked-up  windows,  stretched  out  their  hands, 
and  clinging  to  the  rusty  bars,  turned  them  towards  the 
overflowing  street :  as  if  it  were  a  cheerful  fire,  and 
could  be  shared  in,  that  way. 

But,  when  the  night  came  on,  without  a  cloud  to  dim 
the  full  moon,  what  a  sight  it  was  to  see  the  Great 
Square  full  once  more,  and  the  whole  church,  from  the 
cross  to  the  ground,  lighted  with  innumerable  lanterns, 
tracing  out  the  architecture,  and  winking  and  shining 
all  round  the  colonnade  of  the  piazza  !  And  what  a  sense 
of  exultation,  joy,  delight,  it  was,  when  the  great  bell 
struck  half-past  seven — on  the  instant — to  behold  one 
bright  red  mass  of  fire,  soar  gallantly  from  the  top  of 
the  cupola  to  the  extremest  summit  of  the  cross,  and  the 
moment  it  leaped  into  its  place,  become  the  signal  of  a 
bursting  out  of  countless  lights,  as  great,  and  red,  and 
blazing  as  itself,  from  every  part  of  the  gigantic  church  ; 
so  that  every  cornice,  capital,  and  smallest  ornament  of 
stone,  expressed  itself  in  fire  :  and  the  black  solid 
groundwork  of  the  enormous  dome,  seemed  to  grow 
transparent  as  an  egg-shell ! 

A  train  of  gunpowder,  an  electric  chain — nothing  could 
be  fired,  more  suddenly  and  swiftly,  than  this  second 
illumination  ;  and  when  we  had  got  away,  and  gone 
upon  a  distant  height,  and  looked  towards  it  two  hours 
afterwards,  there  it  still  stood,  shining  and  glittering  in 
the  calm  night  like  a  jewel  I   Not  a  line  of  its  proportion! 


272  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

wanting  ;  not  an  angle  blunted  ;  not  an  atom  of  its 
radiance  lost. 

The  next  night — Easter  Monday — there  was  a  great 
display  of  fireworks  from  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo.  We 
hired  a  room  in  an  opposite  house,  and  made  our  way,  to 
our  places,  in  good  time,  through  a  dense  mob  of  people 
choking  up  the  square  in  front,  and  all  the  avenues 
leading  to  it  ;  and  so  loading  the  bridge  by  which  the 
castle  is  approached,  that  it  seemed  ready  to  sink  into 
the  rapid  Tiber  below.  There  are  statues  on  this  bridge 
(execrable  works)  and,  among  them,  great  vessels  full  of 
burning  tow  were  placed  :  glaring  strangely  on  the  faces 
of  the  crowd,  and  not  less  strangely  on  the  stone  counter, 
feits  above  them. 

The  show  began  with  a  tremendous  discharge  of  can- 
non  ;  and  then,  for  twenty  minutes,  or  half  an  hour,  the 
whole  castle  was  one  incessant  sheet  of  tire,  and  laby^ 
rinth  of  blazing  wheels  of  every  colour,  size,  and  speed  ; 
while  rockets  streamed  into  the  sky,  not  by  ones  or  twos, 
or  scores,  but  hundreds  at  a  time.  The  concluding 
burst — the  Girandola — was  like  the  blowing  up  into  the 
air  of  the  whole  massive  castle,  without  smoke  or  dust. . 

In  half  an  hour  afterwards,  the  immense  concourse 
had  dispersed  ;  the  moon  was  looking  calmly  down  upon 
her  wrinkled  image  in  the  river  ;  and  half  a  dozen  men 
and  boys,  with  bits  of  lighted  candle  in  their  hands : 
moving  here  and  there,  in  search  of  something  v/orth 
having,  that  might  have  been  dropped  in  the  press  :  had 
the  whole  scene  to  thernselves. 

By  way  of  contrast  we  rode  out  into  old  ruined 
Rome,  after  all  this  firing  and  booming,  to  take  our  leave 
of  the  Coliseum.  I  had  seen  it  by  moonlight  before 
(I  never  could  get  through  a  day  without  going  back  to 
it),  but  its  tremendous  solitude  that  night  is  past  all 
telling.  The  ghostly  pillars  in  the  Forum  ;  the  Trium- 
phal Arches  of  Old  Emperors  ;  those  enormous  masses 
9f  ruin  which  were  once  their  palaces  ;  the  grass-grown 
mounds  that  mark  the  graves  ox  ruined  temples  ;  the 
stones  of  the  Via  Sacra,  smooth,  with  the  tread  of  feet  in 
ancient  Rome  ;  even  these  were  dimmed,  in  their  tran- 
scendant  melancholy,  by  the  dark  ghost  of  its  bloody 
holidays,  erect  and  grim  ;  haunting  the  old  scene  ;  de^ 
spoiled  by  pillaging  Popes  and  fighting  Princes,  but  not 
laid  ;  wringing  wild  hands  of  weed,  and  grass,  and 
bramble ;  and  lamenting  to  the  night  in  every  gap  and 
broken  arch — the  shadow  of  its  awful  self,  immovable  \ 

As  we  lay  down  on  the  grass  of  the  Campagna,  next 
day,  on  our  way  to  Florence,  hearing  the  larks  sing,  we 
saw  that  a  little  wooden  cross  liad  been  erected  on  the 
spot  where  the  poor  Pilgrim  Countess  was  murdered. 
tSo,  wo  piled  some  loose  stones  about  it,  as  the  beginning 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


273 


of  a  mound  to  her  memory,  and  wondered  if  we  should 
erer  rest  there  again,  and  look  back  at  Rome. 


A  RAPID  DIORAMA. 

We  are  bound  for  Naples  !  And  we  cross  the  thresh- 
old of  the  Eternal  City  at  yonder  gate,  the  Gate  of  San 
Giovanni  Laterano,  where  the  two  last  objects  that  at- 
tract the  notice  of  a  departing  visitor,  and  the  two  first 
objects  that  attract  the  notice  of  an  arriving  one,  are  a 
proud  church  and  a  decaying  ruin — good  emblems  of 
Rome. 

Our  way  lies  over  the  Campagna,  which  looks  more 
solemn  on  a  bright  blue  day  like  this,  than  beneath  a, 
darker  sky  ;  the  great  extent  of  ruin  being  plainer  to  the 
eye  :  and  the  sunshine  through  the  arches  of  the  broken 
aqueducts,  showing  other  broken  arches  shining  through 
them  in  the  melancholy  distance.  When  we  have  trav- 
ersed it,  and  look  back  from  Albano,  its  dark  undulating 
surface  lies  below  us  like  a  stagnant  lake,  or  like  a 
broad  dull  Lethe  flov/ing  round  the  walls  of  Rome,  and 
separating  it  from  all  the  world  I  How  often  have  the 
Legions,  in  triumphant  march,  gone  glittering  across 
that  purple  waste,  so  silent  and  unpeopled  now  I  How 
often  has  the  train  of  captives  looked,  with  sinking 
hearts,  upon  the  distant  city,  and  beheld  its  population 
pouring  out,  to  hail  the  return  of  their  conqueror  ! 
What  riot,  sensuality  and  murder  have  run  mad  in  the 
vast  palaces  now  heaps  of  brick  and  shattered  marble  ! 
What  glare  of  fires,  and  roar  of  popular  tumult,  and 
wail  of  pestilence  and  famine,  have  come  sweeping  over 
the  wild  plain  where  nothing  is  now  heard  but  the  wind, 
and  where  the  solitary  lizards  gambol  unmolested  in  the 
sun  I 

The  train  of  wine-carts  going  into  Rome,  each  driven 
by  a  shaggy  peasant  reclining  beneath  a  little  gipsy- 
fashioned  canopy  of  sheepskin,  is  ended  now,  and  we  go 
toiling  up  into  a  higher  country  where  there  are  trees. 
The  next  day  brings  us  on  the  Pontine  Marshes,  wearily 
flat  and  lonesome,  and  overgrown  with  brushwood,  and 
swamped  with  water,  but  with  a  fine  road  made  across 
them,  shaded  by  a  long,  long  avenue.  Here  and  there, 
we  pass  a  solitary  guard-house  ;  here  and  there  a  hovel, 
deserted,  and  walled  up.  Some  herdsmen  loiter  on  the 
banks  of  the  stream  beside  the  road,  and  sometimes  a 
flat-bottomed  boat,  towed  by  a  man,  comes  rippling  idly 
along  it.  A  horseman  passes  occasionally,  carrying  a 
long  gun  cross- wise  on  the  saddle  before  him,  and  at- 
tended by  fierce  dogs  ;  but  there  is  nothing  else  astt 


274 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


save  the  wind  and  tlie  shadows,  until  we  come  in  sight 
of  Terracina. 

How  blue  and  bright  the  sea,  rolling  below  the  win- 
dows of  the  inn  so  famous  in  robber  stories  !  How 
picturesque  the  great  crags  and  points  of  rock  overhang- 
ing to-morrow's  narrow  road,  where  galley-slaves  are 
working  in  the  quarries  above,  and  the  sentinels  who 
guard  them  lounge  on  the  sea-shore  !  All  night  there  is 
the  murmur  of  the  sea  beneath  the  stars  ;  and,  in  the 
morning,  just  at  daybreak,  the  prospect  suddenly  becom- 
ing expanded,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  reveals— in  the  far  dis- 
tance, across  the  sea  there  ! — Naples  with  its  islands, 
and  Vesuvius  spouting  fire  !  Within  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  the  whole  is  gone  as  if  it  were  a  vision  in  the 
elouds,  and  there  is  nothing  but  the  sea  and  sky. 

The  Neapolitan  frontier  crossed,  after  two  hours'  trav- 
elling ;  and  the  hungriest  of  soldiers  and  custom-house 
officers  with  difficulty  appeased  ;  we  enter,  by  a  gateless 
portal,  into  the  first  Neapolitan  town— Fondi.  Take  note 
of  Fondi,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  wretched  and  beg- 
garly. 

A  filthy  channel  of  mud  and  refuse  meanders  down 
the  centre  of  the  miserable  street,  fed  by  obscene  rivu- 
lets that  trickle  from  the  abject  houses.  There  is  not  a 
door,  a  window,  or  a  shutter  ;  not  a  roof,  a  wall,  a  post, 
or  a  pillar,  in  all  Fondi,  but  is  decayed,  and  crazy,  and 
rotting  away.  The  wretched  history  of  the  town,  with 
all  its  sieges  and  pillages  by  Barbarossa  and  the  rest, 
might  have  been  acted  last  year.  How  the  gaunt  dogs 
that  sneak  about  the  miserable  street,  come  to  be  alive, 
and  undevoured  by  the  people,  is  one  of  the  enigmas  of 
the  world. 

A  hollow-cheeked  and  scowling  people  they  are  !  All 
beggars  ;  but  that's  nothing.  Look  at  them  as  they 
gather  round.  Some,  are  too  indolent  to  come  down- 
stairs, or  are  too  wisely  mistrustful  of  the  stairs,  per- 
haps, to  venture :  so  stretch  out  their  lean  hands  from 
upper  windows,  and  howl ;  others,  come  flocking  about 
us,  fighting  and  jostling  one  another,  and  demanding, 
incessantly,  charity  for  the  love  of  God,  charity  for  the 
love  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  charity  for  the  love  of  all  the 
Saints.  A  group  of  miserable  children,  almost  naked, 
screaming  forth  the  same  petition,  discover  that  they 
can  see  themselves  reflected  in  the  varnish  of  the  car- 
riage,  and  begin  to  dance  and  make  grimaces,  that  they 
may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  their  antics  repeated  in 
this  mirror.  A  crippled  idiot,  in  the  act  of  striking  one 
of  them  who  drowns  his  clamorous  demand  for  charity, 
observes  his  angry  counterpart  in  the  panel,  stops  short, 
and  thrusting  out  his  tongue,  begins  to  wag  his  head 
and  chatter.    The  shrill  cry  raised  at  this,  awakens  half 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


275 


a  dozen  wild  creatures  wrapped  in  frowsy  brown  cloaks, 
who  are  lying  on  the  church-steps  with  pots  and  pans  for 
sale.  These,  scrambling  up,  approach,  and  beg  defi- 
antly. "  I  am  hungry.  Give  me  something.  Listen  to 
me,  Signor.  I  am  hungry  ! "  Then,  a  ghastly  old  wom- 
an, fearful  of  being  too  late,  comes  hobbling  down  the 
street,  stretching  out  one  hand,  and  scratching  herself 
all  the  way  with  the  other,  and  screaming,  long  before 
she  can  be  heard,  "  Charity,  charity  I  I'll  go  and  pray 
for  you  directly,  beautiful  lady,  if  you'll  give  me  char- 
ity  1 "  Lastly,  the  members  of  a  brotherhood  fot  burying 
the  dead  :  hideously  masked,  and  attired  in  shabby  black 
robes,  white  at  the  skirts,  with  the  splashes  of  many 
muddy  winters :  escorted  by  a  dirty  priest,  and  a  con* 
genial  cross-bearer:  come  hurrying  past.  Surrounded 
by  this  motley  concourse,  we  move  out  of  Fondi :  bad 
bright  eyes  glaring  at  us,  out  of  the  darkness  of  every 
crazy  tenement,  like  glistening  fragments  of  its  filth 
and  putrefaction. 

A  noble  mountain-pass,  with  the  ruins  of  a  fort  on  a 
strong  eminence,  traditionally  called  the  Fort  of  Fra 
Diavolo ;  the  old  town  of  Itri,  like  a  device  in  pastry, 
built  up,  almost  perpendicularly,  on  a  hill,  and  ap 
preached  by  long  steep  fiights  of  steps  ;  beautiful  Mola 
di  Gaeta,  whose  wines,  like  those  of  Albano,  have  de^ 
generated  since  the  days  of  Horace,  or  his  taste  for  wine 
was  bad  :  which  is  not  likely  of  one  who  enjoyed  it  so 
much,  and  extolled  it  so  well ;  another  night  upon  the 
road  of  St.  Agata;  a  rest  next  day  at  Capua,  which  is  pictur- 
esque, but  hardly  so  seductive  to  a  traveller  now,  as  the 
soldiers  of  Praetorian  Rome  were  wont  to  find  the  ancient 
city  of  that  name,  a  ffat  road  among  vines  festooned  and 
looped  from  tree  to  tree ;  and  Mount  Vesuvius  close  at 
hand  at  last  ! — its  cone  and  summit  whitened  with  snow  ; 
and  its  smoke  hanging  over  it,  in  the  heavy  atmosphere 
of  the  day,  like  a  dense  cloud.  So  we  go,  rattling  down 
hill,  into  Naples. 

A  funeral  is  coming  up  the  street,  towards  us.  The 
body,  on  an  open  bier,  born  on  a  kind  of  palanquin, 
covered  with  a  gay  cloth  of  crimson  and  gold.  The 
mourners,  in  white  gowns  and  masks.  If  there  be  death 
abroad,  life  is  well  represented,  too,  for  all  Naples  would 
seem  to  be  out  of  doors,  and  bearing  to  and  fro  in  carri- 
ages. Some  of  these,  the  common  Vetturino  vehicles, 
are  drawn  by  three  horses  abreast,  decked  with  smart  trap- 
pings and  great  abundance  of  brazen  ornament,  and 
always  going  very  fast.  Not  that  their  loads  are  light  ; 
itor  the  smallest  of  them  has  at  least  six  people  inside, 
four  in  front,  four  or  five  more  hanging  on  behind,  and 
two  or  three  more,  in  a  net  or  bag  below  the  axle-tree, 
where  they  lie  half  suffocated  with  mud  and  dust.  Ex- 


276 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


bibitors  of  Punch,  buffo  singers  with  guitars,  reciters  of 
j:)oetry,  reciters  of  stories,  a  row  of  cheap  exhibitions  with 
clowns  and  showmen,  drums,  and  trumpets,  painted 
cloths  representing  the  wonders  within,  and  admiring 
crowds  assembled  without,  assist  the  whirl  and  bustle. 
Ragged  lazzaroni  lie  asleep  in  doorways,  archways,  and 
kennels  ;  the  gentry,  gaily  dressed,  are  dashing  up  and 
down  in  carriages  on  the  Chiaja,  or  walking  in  the 
Public  Gardens  ;  and  quiet  letter- writers,  perched  be- 
hind their  little  desks  and  inkstands  under  the  Portico 
bf  the  Great  Theatre  of  San  Carlo,  in  the  public  street, 
are  waiting  for  clients. 

Here  is  a  galley-slave  in  chains,  who  wants  a  letter 
written  to  a  friend.  He  approaches  a  clerkly-looking 
man,  sitting  under  the  corner  arch,  and  makes  his  bar- 
gain. He  has  obtained  permission  of  the  sentinel  who 
guards  him  :  who  stands  near,  leaning  against  the  wall 
and  cracking  nuts.  The  galley-slave  dictates  in  the  ear 
of  the  letter-writer,  what  he  desires  to  say  ;  and  as  he 
can't  read  writing,  looks  intently  in  his  face,  to  read 
there  whether  he  sets  doAvn  faithfully  what  he  is  told. 
After  a  time,  the  galley-slave  becomes  discursive — inco- 
herent. The  secretary  pauses  and  rubs  his  chin.  The 
galley-slave  is  voluble  and  energetic.  The  secretary,  at 
length,  catches  the  idea,  and  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
knows  how  to  word  it,  sets  it  down ;  stopping,  now  and 
then,  to  glance  back  at  his  text  admiringly.  The  galley- 
slave  is  silent.  The  soldier  stoically  cracks  his  nuts. 
Is  there  anything  more  to  say  ?  inquires  the  letter- writer. 
No  more.  Then  listen,  friend  of  mine.  He  reads  it 
through.  The  galley-slave  is  quite  enchanted.  It  is 
folded,  and  addressed,  and  given  to  him,  and  he  pays 
the  fee.  The  secretary  falls  back  indolently  in  his  chair, 
and  takes  a  book.  The  galley-slave  gathers  up  an  empty 
sack.  The  sentinel  throws  away  a  handful  of  nut-shells, 
shoulders  his  musket,  and  away  they  go  together. 

Why  do  the  beggars  rap  their  chins  constantly,  with 
their  right  hands,  when  you  look  at  them  ?  Everything 
is  done  it  pantomime  in  Naples,  and  that  is  the  conven- 
tional sign  for  hunger.  A  man  who  is  quarrelling  with 
another,  yonder,  lays  the  palm  of  his  right  hand  on  the 
back  of  his  left,  and  shakes  the  two  thumbs — expressive 
of  a  donkey's  ears — whereat  his  adversary  is  goaded  to 
desperation.  Two  people  bargaining  for  fish,  the  buyer 
empties  an  imaginary  waistcoat  pocket  when  he  is  told 
the  price,  and  walks  away  without  a  word  :  having  thor- 
oughly conveyed  to  the  seller  that  he  considers  it  too 
dear.  Two  people  in  carriages,  meeting,  one  touches 
his  lips,  twice  or  thrice,  holds  up  the  five  fingers  of  his 
right  hand,  and  gives  a  horizontal  cut  in  the  air  with  the 
palm.    The  other  nods  briskly,  and  goes  his  way.  He 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


277 


has  been  invited  to  a  friendly  dinner  at  half-past  fivr 
o'clock,  and  will  certainly  come. 

All  over  Italy,  a  peculiar  shake  of  the  right  hand  from 
the  wrist,  with  the  fore-finger  stretched  out,  expresses 
a  negative — the  only  negative  beggars  will  ever  under- 
stand. But,  in  Naples,  those  five  fingers  are  a  copious 
language. 

All  this,  and  every  other  kind  of  out-door  life  and 
stir,  and  maccaroni- eating  at  sunset,  and  flower-selling 
all  day  long,  and  begging  and  stealing  everywhere  and 
at  all  hours,  you  see  upon  the  bright  sea-shore,  where 
the  waves  of  the  bay  sparkle  merrily.  But,  lovers  and 
hunters  of  the  picturesque,  let  us  not  keep  too  studious- 
ly out  of  view  the  miserable  depravity,  degradation,  and 
wretchedness,  with  which  this  gay  Neapolitan  life  is 
inseparably  associated  !  It  is  not  well  to  find  Saint 
Giles's  so  repulsive,  and  the  Porta  Capuana  so  attrac- 
tive. A  pair  of  naked  legs  and  a  ragged  red  scarf,  do 
not  make  all  the  difference  between  what  is  interest- 
ing and  what  is  coarse  and  odious  ?  Painting  and  poet- 
izing for  ever,  if  you  will,  the  beauties  of  this  most 
beautiful  and  lovely  spot  of  earth,  let  us,  as  our  duty, 
try  to  associate  a  new  picturesque  with  some  faint  recog- 
nition of  man's  destiny  and  capabilities  ;  more  hopeful, 
I  believe,  among  the  ice  and  snow  of  the  North  Pole, 
than  in  the  sun  and  bloom  of  Naples. 

Oapri — once  made  odious  bj^  the  deified  beast  Tiberius 
— Iscnia,  Procida,  and  the  thousand  distant  beauties  of 
the  Bay,  lie  in  the  blue  sea  yonder,  changing  in  the  mist 
and  sunshine  twenty  times  a  day  :  now  close  at  hand, 
now  far  off,  now  unseen.  The  fairest  country  in  the 
world,  is  spread  about  us.  Whether  we  turn  towards 
the  Miseno  shore  of  the  splendid  watery  amphitheatre, 
and  go  by  the  Grotto  of  Posilipo  to  the  Grotto  del  Cane 
and  away  to  Baiae  :  or  take  the  other  way,  towards  Vesu- 
vius and  Sorrento,  it  is  one  succession  of  delights.  In 
the  last-named  direction,  where,  over  doors  and  arch= 
ways,  there  are  countless  little  images  of  San  Gennaro, 
with  his  Canute's  hand  stretched  out,  to  check  the  fury 
of  the  Burning  Mountain,  we  are  carried  pleasantly,  by 
a  railroad  on  the  beautiful  Sea  Beach,  past  the  town  of 
Torre  del  Greco,  built  upon  the  ashes  of  the  former 
town  destroyed  by  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius,  within  a 
hundred  years  ;  and  past  the  flat-roofed  houses,  gran- 
aries, and  maccaroni  manufactories  ;  to  Castel-a-Mare, 
with  its  ruined  castle,  now  inhabited  by  fishermen, 
standing  in  the  sea  upon  a  heap  of  rocks.  Here,  the 
railroad  terminates  ;  but,  hence  we  may  ride  on,  by  an 
unbroken  succession  of  enchanting  bays,  and  beautiful 
scenery,  sloping  from  the  highest  summit  of  Saint  An- 
gelo,  the  highest  neighbouring  mountain,  down  to  the 


278 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


water's  edge — among  vineyards,  olive  trees,  gardens  of 
oranges  and  lemons,  orchards,  heaped-up  rocks,  green 
gorges  in  the  hills — and  by  the  bases  of  snow-covered 
heights,  and  through  small  towns  with  handsome,  dark- 
haired  women  at  the  doors — and  pass  delicious  summer 
villas — to  Sorrento,  where  the  Poet  Tasso  drew  his  in- 
spiration from  the  beauty  surrounding  him.  Returning, 
we  may  climb  the  heights  above  Castel-a-Mare,  and 
looking  down  among  the  boughs  and  leaves,  see  the 
crisp  water  glistening  in  the  sun  ;  and  clusters  of  white 
houses  in  distant  Naples,  dwindling,  in  the  great  extent 
of  prospect,  down  to  dice.  The  coming  back  to  the  city, 
by  the  beach  again ,  at  sunset :  with  the  glowing  sea  on 
one  side,  and  the  darkening  mountain,  with  its  smoke 
and  flame,  upon  the  other :  is  a  sublime  conclusion  to 
the  glory  of  the  day. 

That  church  by  the  Porta  Capuana — near  the  old 
fisher-market  in  the  dirtiest  quarter  of  dirty  Naples, 
where  the  revolt  of  Massaniello  began — is  memorable 
for  having  been  the  scene  of  one  of  his  earliest  proclama- 
tions  to  the  people,  and  is  particularly  remarkable  for 
nothing  else,  unless  it  be  its  waxen  and  bejewelled  Saint 
in  a  glass  case,  with  two  odd  hands  ;  or  the  enormous 
number  of  beggars  who  are  constantly  rapping  their 
chins  there,  like  a  battery  of  castanets.  The  cathedral 
with  the  beautiful  door,  and  the  columns  of  African  and 
Egyptian  granite  that  once  ornamented  the  temple  of 
Apollo,  contains  the  famous  sacred  blood  of  San  Gennaro 
or  Januarius  :  which  is  preserved  in  two  phials  in  a  silver 
tabernacle,  and  miraculously  liquefies  three  times  a  year, 
to  the  great  admiration  of  the  people.  At  the  same 
moment,  the  stone  (distant  some  miles)  where  the  Saint 
suftered  martyrdom,  becomes  faintly  red.  It  is  said  that 
the  oflBciating  priests  turn  faintly  red  also,  sometimes, 
when  these  miracles  occur. 

The  old,  old  men  who  live  in  hovels  at  the  entrance 
of  these  ancient  catacombs,  and  who,  in  their  age  and 
infirmity,  seem  waiting  here,  to  be  buried  themselves, 
are  members  of  a  curious  body,  called  the  Royal  Hospi- 
tal, who  are  the  official  attendants  at  funerals.  Two  of 
these  old  spectres  totter  away,  with  lighted  tapers,  to 
show  the  caverns  of  death — as  unconcerned  as  if  they 
were  immortal.  They  were  used  as  burying-places  for 
three  hundred  years  ;  and,  in  one  part,  is  a  large  pit  full 
of  skulls  and  bones,  said  to  be  the  sad  remains  of  a  great 
mortality  occasioned  by  a  plague.  In  the  rest,  there  is 
nothing  but  dust.  They  consist,  chiefly,  of  great  wide 
corridors  and  labyrinths,  hewn  out  of  the  rock.  At  the 
end  of  some  of  these  long  passages,  are  unexpected 
glimpses  of  the  daylight,  shining  down  from  above.  It 
looks  as  ghastly  and  as  strange  :  among  the  torches,  and 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


279 


the  dust,  and  the  dark  vaults :  as  if  it,  too,  were  dead 
and  buried. 

The  present  burial-place  lies  out  yonder,  on  a  hill  be- 
tween the  city  and  Vesuvius.  The  old  Campo  Sarto 
with  its  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  pits,  is  only  used 
for  those  who  die  in  hospitals,  and  prisons,  and  are  un- 
glaimed  by  their  friends.  The  graceful  new  cemetery, 
at  no  great  distance  from  it,  though  yet  unfinished,  hag 
already  many  graves  among  its  shrubs  and  flowers,  and 
airy  colonnades.  It  might  be  reasonably  objected  else- 
where, that  some  of  the  tombs  are  meretricious  and  too 
fanciful ;  but  the  general  brightness  seems  to  justify  it 
here  ;  and  Mount  Vesuvius,  separated  from  them  by  a 
lovely  slope  of  ground,  exalts  and  saddens  the  scene. 

If  it  be  solemn  to  behold  from  this  new  City  of  the 
Dead,  with  its  dark  smoke  hanging  in  the  clear  sky, 
how  much  more  awful  and  impressive  is  it,  viewed  from 
the  ghostly  ruins  of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii ! 

Stand  at  the  bottom  of  the  great  market-place  of 
Pompeii,  and  look  up  the  silent  streets,  through  the 
ruined  temples  of  Jupiter  and  Isis,  over  the  broken 
houses  with  their  inmost  sanctuaries  open  to  the  day, 
away  to  Mount  Vesuvius,  bright  and  snowy  in  the  peace- 
ful distance ;  and  lose  all  count  of  time,  and  heed  of 
other  things,  in  the  strange  and  melancholy  sensation  of 
seeing  the  Destroyed  and  the  Destroyer  making  this 
quiet  picture  in  the  sun.  Then,  ramble  on,  and  see,  at 
every  turn,  the  little  familiar  tokens  of  human  habita- 
tion and  everyday  pursuits  ;  the  chafing  of  the  bucket- 
rope  in  the  stone  rim  of  the  exhausted  well ;  the  track 
of  carriage- wheels  in  the  pavement  of  the  street ;  the 
marks  of  drinking-vessels  on  the  stone  counter  of  the 
wineshop ;  the  amphorae  in  private  cellars,  stored  away 
so  many  hundred  years  ago,  and  undisturbed  to  this  hour 
— all  rendering  the  solitude  and  deadly  lonesomeness  of 
the  place,  ten  thousand  times  more  solemn,  than  if  the 
volcano,  in  its  fury,  had  swept  the  city  from  the  earth, 
and  sunk  it  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

After  it  was  shaken  by  the  earthquake  which  preceded 
the  eruption,  workmen  were  employed  in  shaping  out, 
in  stone,  new  ornaments  for  temples  and  other  buildings 
that  had  suffered.  Here  lies  their  work,  outside  the 
city  gate,  as  if  they  would  return  to-morrow. 

In  the  cellar  of  Diomede's  house,  where  certain  skele- 
tons were  found  huddled  together,  close  to  the  door,  the 
impression  of  their  bodies  on  the  ashes,  hardened  with 
the  ashes,  and  became  stamped  and  fixed  there,  after 
they  had  shrunk,  inside,  to  scanty  bones.  So,  in  the 
theatre  of  Herculaneum,  a  comic  mask,  floating  on  the 
Stream  when  it  was  hot  and  liquid,  stamped  its  mimic 


280 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


feaitures  in  it  as  it  hardened  into  stone  ;  and  now,  it 
turns  upon  the  stranger  the  fantastic  look  it  turned  upon 
the  audiences  in  that  same  theatre  two  thousand  years 
ago. 

Next  to  the  wonder  of  going  up  and  down  the  streets, 
and  in  and  out  of  the  houses,  and  traversing  the  secret 
chambers  of  tlie  temples  of  a  religion  that  has  vanished 
from  the  earth,  and  finding  so  many  fresh  traces  of  re- 
mote antiquity  :  as  if  the  course  of  Time  had  been 
stopped  after  this  desolation,  and  there  had  been  no 
nights  and  days,  months,  years,  and  centuries,  since  ; 
nothing  is  more  impressive  and  terrible  than  the  many 
evidences  of  the  searching  nature  of  the  ashes,  as  be- 
speaking their  irresistible  power,  and  tlie  impossibility 
of  escaping  them.  In  the  wine-cellars,  they  forced  their 
way  into  the  earthen  vessels  :  displacing  the  wine  and 
choking  them,  to  the  brim,  with  dust.  In  the  tombs, 
they  forced  the  ashes  of  the  dead  from  the  funeral  urns, 
and  rained  new  ruin  even  into  them.  The  mouths,  and 
eyes,  and  skulls  of  all  the  skeletons,  were  stuffed  with 
this  terrible  hail.  In  Herculaneum,  where  the  flood  was 
of  a  different  and  a  heavier  kind,  it  rolled  in,  like  a  sea. 
Imagine  a  deluge  of  water  turned  to  marble,  at  its  height 
—and  that  is  what  is  called  '*the  lava''  here. 

Some  workmen  were  digging  the  gloomy  well  on  the 
brink  of  which  we  now  stand,  looking  down,  when  they 
came  on  some  of  the  stone  benches  of  the  theatre — 
those  steps  (for  such  they  seem)  at  the  bottom  of  the 
excavation— and  found  the  buried  city  of  Herculaneum. 
Presently  going  down,  with  lighted  torches,  we  are  per- 
plexed by  great  walls  of  monstrous  thickness,  rising  up 
between  the  benches,  shutting  out  the  stage,  obtruding 
their  shapeless  forms  in  absurd  places,  confusing  the 
whole  plan,  and  making  it  a  disordered  dream.  We 
cannot,  at  first,  believe,  or  picture  to  ourselves,  that 
This  came  rolling  in,  and  drowned  the  city  ;  and  that 
all  that  is  not  here,  has  been  cut  away,  by  the  axe,  like 
solid  stone.  But  this  perceived  and  understood,  the 
horror  and  oppression  of  its  presence  are  indescribable. 

Many  of  the  paintings  on  the  walls  in  the  roofless 
chambers  of  both  cities,  or  carefully  removed  to  the 
museum  at  Naples,  are  as  fresh  and  plain,  as  if  they  had 
been  executed  yesterday.  Here  are  subjects  of  still  life, 
as  provisions,  dead  game,  bottles,  glasses,  and  the  like  ; 
familiar  classical  stories,  or  mythological  fables,  always 
forcibly  and  plainly  told  ;  conceits  of  cupids,  quarrel- 
ling,  sporting,  working  at  trades  ;  theatrical  rehearsals  ; 
poets  reading  their  productions  to  their  friends  ;  inscrip- 
tions  chalked  upon  the  walls  ;  political  squibs,  adver- 
tisements, rough  drawings  by  schpolboys  ;  everything  to 
people  and  restore  the  ancient  cities,  in  the  fancy  ot  their 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


281 


wondering  visitor.  Furniture,  too,  you  see,  of  every 
kind — ^lamps,  tables,  couches  ;  vessels  for  eating,  drink- 
ing, and  cooking ;  workmen's  tools,  surgical  instru- 
ments, tickets  for  the  theatre,  pieces  of  money,  personal 
ornaments,  bunches  of  keys  found  clenched  in  the  grasp 
of  skeletons,  helmets  of  guards  and  warriors  ;  little 
household  bells,  yet  musical  with  their  old  domestic 
tones. 

The  least  among  these  objects,  lends  its  aid  to  swell 
the  interest  of  Vesuvius,  and  invest  it  with  a  perfect 
fascination.  The  looking,  from  either  ruined  city,  into 
the  neighbouring  grounds  overgrown  with  beautiful 
vines  and  luxuriant  trees  ;  and  remembering  that  house 
tipon  house,  temple  on  temple,  building  after  building, 
and  street  after  street,  are  still  lying  underneath  the  roots 
of  all  the  quiet  cultivation,  waiting  to  be  turned  up  to 
the  light  of  day  ;  is  something  so  wonderful,  so  full  of 
mystery,  so  captivating  to  the  imagination,  that  one 
would  think  it  would  be  paramount,  and  yield  to  noth- 
ing else.  To  nothing  but  Vesuvius  ;  but  the  mountain 
is  the  genius  of  the  scene.  From  every  indication  of  the 
ruin  it  has  worked,  we  look,  again,  with  an  absorbing 
interest  to  where  its  smoke  is  rising  up  into  the  sky. 
It  is  beyond  us,  as  we  thread  the  ruined  streets  :  above 
us,  as  we  stand  upon  the  ruined  walls  ;  we  follow  it 
through  every  vista  of  broken  columns,  as  we  wander 
through  the  empty  courtyards  of  the  houses;  and  through 
the  garlandings  and  interlacings  of  every  wanton  vine. 
Turning  away  to  Psestum  yonder,  to  see  the  awful  struc 
tures  built,  the  least  aged  of  them,  hundred  of  years  be- 
fore the  birth  of  Christ,  and  standing  yet,  erect  in  lonely 
majesty,  upon  the  wild,  malaria-blighted  plain — wo 
watch  Vesuvius  as  it  disappears  from  the  prospect,  and 
watch  for  it  again,  on  our  return,  with  the  same  thrill 
of  interest  :  as  the  doom  and  destiny  of  all  this  beauti- 
ful country,  biding  its  terrible  time. 

It  is  very  warm  in  the  sun,  on  this  early  spring-day, 
when  we  return  from  Paestum,  but  very  cold  in  the 
shade  :  insomuch,  that  although  we  may  lunch,  pleasant- 
ly, at  noon,  in  the  open  air,  by  the  gate  of  Pompeii,  the 
neighbouring  rivulet  supplies  thick  ice  for  c  ar  wine. 
But,  the  sun  is  shining  brightly  ;  there  is  not  a  cloud  or 
speck  of  vapour  in  the  whole  blue  sky,  looking  down 
upon  the  bay  of  Naples ;  and  the  moon  will  be  at  the 
full  to-night.  No  matter  that  the  snow  and  ice  lie  tiiick 
upon  the  summit  of  Vesuvius,  or  that  we  have  been  on 
foot  all  day  at  Pompeii,  or  that  croakers  maintain  that 
strangers  should  not  be  on  the  mountain  by  night,  in 
such  an  unusual  season.  Let  us  take  advantage  of  the 
fine  weather  ;  make  the  best  of  our  way  to  Resina,  the 
little  village  at  the  foot  of  the  njountains  ;  prepare  our» 


282 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


selves,  as  well  as  we  can,  on  so  short  a  notice,  at  the. 
guide's  house  ;  ascend  at  once,  and  have  sunset  half-way 
up,  moonlight  at  the  top,  and  midnight  to  come  down  in  \ 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  there  is  a  terrible  up- 
roar in  the  little  stable-yard  of  Signior  Salvatore,  the 
recognized  head-guide,  with  the  gold  band  round  his 
cap  ;  and  thirty  under-guides  who  are  all  scuffling  and 
screaming  at  once,  are  preparing  half  a  dozen  saddled 
ponies,  three  littei*s,  and  some  stout  staves,  for  the  jour- 
ney. Every  one  of  the  thirty,  quarrels  with  the  other 
twenty- nine,  and  frightens  the  six  ponies  ;  and  as  much 
of  the  village  as  can  possibly  squeeze  itself  into  the  little 
stable-yard,  participates  in  the  tumult,  and  gets  trodden 
on  by  the  cattle. 

Aftfex'  much  violent  skirmishing,  and  more  noise  than 
would  suffice  for  the  storming  of  Naples,  the  procession 
starts.  The  head-guide,  who  is  liberally  paid  for  all  the 
attendants,  rides  a  little  in  advance  of  the  party ;  the 
other  thirty  guides  proceed  on  foot.  Eight  go  forward 
with  the  litters  that  are  to  be  used  by-and-by  ;  and  the 
remaining  two-and-twenty  beg. 

We  ascend,  gradually,  by  stony  lanes  like  rough  broad 
flights  of  stairs,  for  some  time.  At  length,  we  leave 
these,  and  the  vineyards  on  either  side  of  them,  and 
emerge  upon  a  bleak  bare  region  where  the  lava  lies 
confusedly,  in  enormous  rusty  masses  :  as  if  the  earth 
had  been  ploughed  up  by  burning  thunderbolts.  And 
now,  we  halt  to  see  the  sun  set.  The  change  that  falls 
upon  the  dreary  region,  and  on  the  whole  mountain,  as 
its  red  light  fades,  and  the  night  comes  on — and  the  un- 
utterable solemnity  and  dreariness  that  reign,  around, 
who  that  has  witnessed  it,  can  ever  forget ! 

It  is  dark,  when  after  winding,  for  some  time,  over  the 
broken  ground,  we  arrive  at  the  foot  of  the  cone : 
which  is  extremely  steep,  and  seems  to  rise,  almost  per- 
pendicularly, from  the  spot  where  we  dismount.  The 
only  light  is  reflected  from  the  snow,  deep,  hard,  and 
white,  with  which  the  cone  is  covered.  It  is  now  in- 
tensely cold,  and  the  air  is  piercing.  The  thirty-one 
have  brought  no  torches,  knowing  that  the  moon  will 
rise  before  we  reach  the  top.  Two  of  the  litters  are 
devoted  to  the  two  ladies  ;  the  third,  to  a  rather  heavy 
gentleman  from  Naples,  whose  hospitality  and  good- 
nature have  attached  him  to  the  expedition,  and  deter- 
mined him  to  assist  in  doing  the  honours  of  the 
mountain.  The  rather  heavy  gentleman  is  carried  by 
fifteen  men  ;  each  of  the  ladies  by  half  a  dozen.  We 
who  walk,  make  the  best  use  of  sour  staves  ;  and  so  the 
whole  party  begin  to  labour  upward  over  the  snow, — 
as  if  they  were  toiling  to  the  summit  of  an  antedilu- 
vian Twelfth-cake. 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY 


283 


We  are  a  long"  time  toiling  up  ;  and  the  head-guide 
looks  oddly  about  him  when  one  of  the  company — not  an 
Italian,  though  an  habitue  of  the  mountain  for  many 
years  :  whom  we  will  call,  for  our  present  purpose,  Mr. 
Pickle  of  Portici — suggests  that,  as  it  is  freezing  hard, 
and  the  usual  footing  of  ashes  is  covered  by  the  snow 
and  ice,  it  will  surely  be  difficult  to  descend.  But  the 
sight  of  the  litters  above,  tilting  up  and  down,  and  jerk- 
ing from  this  side  to  that,  as  the  bearers  continually  slip 
and  stumble,  diverts  our  attention:  more  especially  as 
the  whole  length  of  the  rather  heavy  gentleman  is,  at 
that  moment,  presented  to  us  alarmingly  foreshortened, 
with  his  head  downwards. 

The  rising  of  the  moon  soon  afterwards,  revives  the 
flagging  spirits  of  the  bearers.  Stimulating  each  other 
with  their  usual  watchword,  Courage,  friend  I  It  is  to 
eat  maccaroni  I "  they  press  on,  gallantly,  for  the  sum- 
mit. 

From  tinging  the  top  of  the  snow  above  us,  with  a 
band  of  light,  and  pouring  it  in  a  stream  through  the 
valley  below,  while  we  have  been  ascending  in  the  dark, 
the  moon  soc/n  lights  the  whole  white  mountain  side, 
and  the  broad  sea  down  below,  and  tiny  Naples  in  the 
distance,  and  every  village  in  the  country  round.  The 
whole  prospect  is  in  this  lovely  state,  when  we  come 
upon  the  platform  on  the  mountain-top — the  region  of 
Fire — an  exhausted  crater  formed  of  great  masses  of 
gigantic  cinders,  like  blocks  of  stone  from  some  tremen- 
dous waterfall,  burnt  up  ;  from  every  chink  and  crevice 
of  which,  hot,  sulphurous  smoke  is  pouring  out  :  while, 
from  another  conical-shaped  hill,  the  present  crater, 
rising  abruptly  from  this  platform  at  the  end,  great 
sheets  of  fire  are  streaming  forth:  reddening  the  night 
with  flame,  blackening  it  with  smoke,  and  spotting  it 
with  red-hot  stones  and  cinders,  that  fly  up  into  the  air 
like  feathers,  and  fall  down  like  lead.  What  words  can 
paint  the  gloom  and  grandeur  of  this  scene  I 

The  broken  ground  :  the  smoke  ;  the  sense  of  suffoca- 
tion from  the  sulphur  ;  the  fear  of  falling  down  through 
the  crevices  in  the  yawning  ground  ;  the  stopping,  every 
now  and  then,  for  somebody  who  is  missing  in  the  dark 
(for  the  dense  smoke  now  obscures  the  moon) ;  the  in- 
tolerable noise  of  the  thirty  ;  and  the  hoarse  roaring  of 
the  mountain  ;  make  it  a  scene  of  such  confusion,  at  the 
same  time,  that  we  reel  again.  But,  dragging  the  ladies 
through  it,  and  across  another  exhausted  crater  to  th^ 
foot  of  the  present  Volcano,  we  approach  close  to  it  on 
the  windy  side,  and  then  sit  down  among  the  hot  ashes 
at  its  foot,  and  look  up  in  silence  ;  faintly  estimating  the 
action  that  is  ^oing  on  within,  from  its  being  full  a 


284 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKEN3. 


hundred  feet  higher,  at  this  minute,  than  It  was  six 
weeks  ago. 

There  is  something  ia  the  fire  and  roar,  that  generates 
an  irresistible  desire  to  get  nearer  to  it.  We  cannot  rest 
long,  without  starting  off,  two  of  us,  on  our  hands  and 
knees,  accompanied  by  the  head-guide,  to  climb  to  the 
brim  of  the  flaming  crater,  and  try  to  look  in.  Mean- 
while, the  thirty  yell,  as  with  one  voice,  that  it  is  a 
dangerous  proceeding,  and  call  to  us  to  come  back; 
frightening  the  rest  of  the  party  out  of  their  wits. 

What  with  their  noise,  and  what  with  the  trerhbling 
of  the  thin  crust  of  ground,  that  seems  about  to  open 
underneath  our  feet  and  plunge  us  in  the  burning  gulf 
below  (which  is  the  real  danger,  if  there  be  any) ;  and 
what  with  the  flashing  of  the  fire  in  our  faces,  and  the 
shower  of  red-hot  ashes  that  is  raining  down,  and  the 
choking  smoke  and  sulphur ;  we  may  well  feel  giddy 
and  irrational,  like  drunken  men.  But,  we  contrive  to 
climb  up  to  the  brim,  and  look  down,  for  a  moment,  into 
the  Hell  of  boiling  fire  below.  Then,  we  all  three  come 
rolling  down  ;  blackened,  and  singed,  and  scorched,  and 
hot,  and  giddy  ;  and  each  with  his  dress  alight  in  half  a 
dozen  places. 

You  have  read,  a  thousand  times,  that  the  usual  way 
of  descending,  is,  by  sliding  down  the  ashes  :  which, 
forming  a  gradually  increasing  ledge  below  the  feet, 
prevent  too  rapid  a  descent.  But,  when  we  have  cross- 
ed the  two  exhausted  craters  on  our  way  back,  and  are 
come  to  this  precipitous  place,  there  is  (as  Mr.  Pickle  has 
foretold)  no  vestige  of  ashes  to  be  seen  ;  the  whole  being 
a  smooth  sheet  of  ice. 

In  this  dilemma,  ten  or  a  dozen  of  the  guides  cautious- 
ly join  hands,  and  make  a  chain  of  men  ;  of  whom  the 
foremost  beat,  as  well  as  they  can,  a  rough  track  with 
their  sticks,  down  which  we  prepare  to  follow.  The  way 
being  fearfully  steep,  and  none  of  the  party  :  even  of 
the  thirty :  being  able  to  keep  their  feet  for  six  paces 
together,  the  ladies  are  taken  out  of  their  litters,  and 
placed,  each  between  two  careful  persons ;  while  others 
of  the  thirty  hold  by  their  skirts,  to  prevent  their  falling 
forward — a  necessary  precaution,  tending  to  the  im= 
mediate  and  hopeless  dilapidation  of  their  apparel.  The 
rather  heavy  gentleman  is  adjured  to  leave  his  litter  toOp 
and  be  escorted  in  a  similar  manner  ;  but  he  resolves  to 
be  brought  down  as  he  was  brought  up,  on  the  principle 
that  his  fifteen  bearers  are  not  likely  to  tumble  all  at 
once,  and  that  he  is  safer  so,  than  trusting  to  his  own 
legs. 

In  this  order,  we  begin  the  descent :  sometimes  on 
foot,  sometimes  shuffling  on  the  ice  :  always  proceeding 
much  more  quietly  and  slowly,  than  on  our  upward  way  : 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


285 


and  constantly  alarmed  by  tlie  falling  among  ub  of 
somebody  from  behind,  who  endangers  the  footing  of 
the  whole  party,  and  clings  pertinaciously  to  anybody's 
ankles.  It  is  impossible  for  the  litter  to  be  in  advance, 
too,  as  the  track  has  to  bo  made  ;  and  its  appearance  be- 
hind us,  overhead — with  some  one  or  other  of  the  bear- 
ers always  down,  and  the  rather  heavy  gentleman  with 
his  legs  always  in  the  air — is  very  threatening  and  fright- 
ful. We  have  gone  on  thus,  a  very  little  way,  painfully 
and  anxiously,  but  quite  merrily,  and  regarding  it  as  a 
great  success — and  have  all  fallen  several  times,  and 
have  all  been  stopped,  somehow  or  other,  as  we  were 
sliding  away — when  Mr.  Pickle,  of  Portici,  in  the  act  of 
remarking  on  these  uncommon  circumstances  as  quite  be- 
yond his  experience,  stumbles,  falls,  disengages  himself, 
with  quick  presence  of  mind,  from  those  about  him, 
plunges  away  head  foremost,  and  rolls,  over  and  over^ 
down  the  whole  surface  of  the  cone  ! 

Sickening  as  it  is  to  look,  and  be  so  powerless  to  help 
him,  I  see  him  there,  in  the  moonlight — I  have  had  such 
a  dream  often — skimming  over  the  white  ice,  like  a  can- 
non-ball. Almost  at  the  same  moment,  there  is  a  cry 
from  behind  ;  and  a  man  who  has  carried  a  light  basket 
of  spare  cloaks  on  his  head,  comes  rolling  past,  at  the 
same  frightful  speed,  closely  followed  by  a  boy.  At 
this  climax  of  the  chapter  of  accidents,  the  remaining 
eight-and-twenty  vociferate  to  that  degree,  that  a  pack 
of  wolves  would  be  music  to  them  ! 

Giddy,  and  bloody,  and  a  mere  bundle  of  rags,  is 
Pickle  of  Portici  when  we  reach  the  place  where  we  dis- 
mounted, and  where  the  horses  are  waiting  ;  but,  thank 
God,  sound  in  limb  !  And  never  are  we  likely  to  be 
more  glad  to  see  a  man  alive  and  on  his  feet,  than  to  see 
him  now — making  light  of  it  too,  though  sorely  bruised 
and  in  great  pain.  The  boy  is  brought  into  the  hermit- 
age on  the  Mountain,  while  we  are  at  supper,  witli  his 
head  tied  up  ;  and  the  man  is  heard  of,  some  hours 
afterwards.  He  too  is  bruised  and  stunned,  but  has 
broken  no  bones  ;  the  snow  having,  fortunately,  covered 
all  the  larger  blocks  of  rock  and  stone,  and  rendered 
'hem  harmless. 

After  a  cheerful  meal,  and  a  good  rest  before  a  blazing 
jre,  we  again  take  horse,  and  continue  our  descent  to 
Salvatore's  house — very  slowly,  by  reason  of  our  bruised 
friend  being  hardly  able  to  keep  the  saddle,  or  endure 
Ihe  pain  of  motion.  Though  it  is  so  late  at  night,  or 
3arly  in  the  morning,  all  the  people  of  the  village  are 
waiting  about  the  little  stable-yard  when  we  arrive,  and 
looking  up  the  road  by  which  we  are  expected.  Our  ap- 
pearance is  hailed  with  a  great  clamour  of  tongues,  and  a 
general  sensation  for  which  in  our  modesty  we  are  some. 


286 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


what  at  a  loss  to  account,  until,  turning  into  the  yard,  we 
find  that  one  of  a  party  of  French  gentlemen  who  were  on 
the  mountain  at  the  same  time  is  lying  on  some  straw  in 
the  stable,  with  a  broken  limb  :  looking  like  Death,  and 
suffering  great  torture ;  and  that  we  were  confidently 
supposed  to  have  encountered  some  worse  accident. 

So  well  returned,  and  Heaven  be  praised  1"  as  the 
cheerful  Vetturino,  who  has  borne  us  company  all  the 
way  from  Pisa,  says,  with  all  his  heart !  And  away  with 
his  ready  horses,  into  sleeping  Naples ! 

It  wakes  again  to  Policinelli  and  pickpockets,  buffo 
singers  and  beggars,  rags,  puppets,  flowers,  brightness, 
dirt,  and  universal  degradation  ;  airing  its  Harlequin 
Guit  in  the  sunshine,  next  day  and  every  day ;  singing, 
starving,  dancing,  gaming,  on  the  sea-shore  ;  and  leav- 
ing all  labour  to  the  burning  mountain,  which  is  ever 
at  its  work. 

Our  English  dilettanti  would  be  very  pathetic  on  the 
subject  of  the  national  taste,  if  they  could  hear  an  Ital- 
ian opera  half  as  badly  sung  in  England  as  we  may  hear 
'he  Foscari  perfonned,  to-night,  in  the  splendid  theatre 
3f  San  Carlo.  But,  for  astonishing  truth  and  spirit  in 
leizing  and  embodying  the  real  life  about  it,  the  shabby 
iittle  San  Carlino  Theatre — the  rickety  house  one  story 
high,  with  a  staring  picture  outside  :  down  among  the 
drums  and  trumpets,  and  the  tumblers,  and  the  lady 
conjuror — is  without  a  rival  anywhere. 

There  is  one  extraordinary  feature  in  the  real  life  of 
Naples,  at  which  we  may  take  a  glance  before  we  go — 
the  Lotteries. 

They  prevail  in  most  parts  of  Italy,  but  are  particu- 
larly obvious,  in  their  effects  and  influences,  here.  They 
are  drawn  every  Saturday.  They  bring  an  immense 
revenue  to  the  Government ;  and  diffuse  a  taste  for 
gambling  among  the  poorest  of  the  poor,  which  is  very 
comfortable  to  the  coffers  of  the  state,  and  very  ruinous 
to  themselves.  The  lowest  stake  is  one  grain  ;  less  than 
a  farthing.  One  hundred  numbers — from  one  to  a  hun- 
dred, inclusive — are  put  into  a  box.  Five  are  drawn. 
Those  are  the  prizes.  I  buy  three  numbers.  If  one  of 
them  come  up,  I  win  a  small  prize.  If  two,  some  hun. 
dreds  of  times  my  stake.  If  three,  three  thousand  five 
hundred  times  my  stake.  I  stake  (or  play  as  they  call 
it)  what  I  can  upon  my  numbers,  and  buy  what  numbers 
I  please.  The  amount  I  play,  I  pay  at  the  lottery  office, 
where  I  purchase  the  ticket ;  and  it  is  stated  on  the  ticket 
itself. 

Every  lottery  office  keeps  a  printed  book,  an  Universal 
Lottery  Diviner,  where  every  possible  accident  and  cir- 
cumstance is  provided  for,  and  has  a  number  against  it. 
For  instance,  let  us  stake  two  carlini — about  sevenpen^e. 


PICTURES  FKOM  ITALY. 


287 


On  our  way  to  the  lottery  office,  we  run  against  a  black 
man.  When  we  get  there,  we  say  gravely,  "  The  Di- 
viner." It  is  handed  over  the  counter,  as  a  serious 
matter  of  business.  We  look  at  black  man.  Such  a 
number.  *'Give  us  that."  We  look  at  running  against 
a  person  in  the  street  itself.  Give  us  that."  Now,  we 
have  our  three  numbers. 

If  the  roof  of  the  theatre  of  San  Carlo  were  to  fall  in, 
so  many  people  would  play  upon  the  numbers  attached 
f:o  such  an  accident  in  the  Diviner,  that  the  Government 
would  soon  close  those  numbers,  and  decline  to  run  the 
risk  of  losing  any  more  upon  them.  This  often  happens* 
Not  long  ago,  when  there  was  a  fire  in  the  King's  Palace, 
there  was  such  a  desperate  run  on  fire,  and  king,  and 
palace,  that  further  stakes  on  the  numbers  attached  to 
^hose  words  in  the  Golden  Book  were  forbidden.  Every 
accident  or  event,  is  supposed,  by  the  ignorant  populace, 
to  be  a  revelation  to  the  beholder,  or  party  concerned,  in 
connection  with  the  lottery.  Certain  people  who  have 
a  talent  for  dreaming  fortunately,  are  much  sought 
after ;  and  there  are  some  priests  who  are  constantly 
favoured  with  visions  of  the  lucky  numbers. 

I  heard  of  a  Lorse  running  away  with  a  man,  and  dash- 
ing him  down,  dead,  at  the  corner  of  a  street.  Pursuing 
the  horse  with  incredible  speed,  was  another  man,  who 
ran  so  fast,  that  he  came  up,  immediately  after  the  acci- 
dent. He  threw  himself  upon  his  knees  beside  the  un- 
fortunate rider,  and  clasped  his  hand  with  an  expression 
of  the  wildest  grief.  If  you  have  life,"  he  said,  speak 
one  word  to  me  !  If  you  have  one  gasp  of  breath  left, 
mention  your  age  for  Heaven's  sake,  that  I  may  play  that 
number  in  the  lottery.*' 

It  is  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  we  may  go  to 
see  our  lottery  drawn.  The  ceremony  takes  place  every 
Saturday,  in  the  Tribunale,  or  Court  of  Justice — this 
singular,  earthy -smelling  room,  or  gallery,  as  mouldy  as 
an  old  cellar,  and  as  damp  as  a  dungeon.  At  the  upper 
end  is  a  platform,  with  a  large  horse-shoe  table  upon  it  ; 
and  a  President  and  Council  sitting  round — all  Judges  of 
the  Law.  The  man  on  the  little  stool  behind  the  Presi- 
dent, is  the  Capo  Lazzarone,  a  kind  of  tribune  of  the 
people,  appointed  on  their  behalf  to  see  that  all  is  fairly 
conducted  ;  attended  by  a  few  personal  friends.  A  rag- 
ged, swarthy  fellow  he  is  :  with  long  matted  hair  hang- 
ing down  all  over  his.  face  :  and  covered,  from  head  to 
foot,  with  most  unquestionably  genuine  dirt.  All  the 
body  of  the  room  is  filled  with  the  commonest  of  the 
Neapolitan  people  :  and  between  them  and  the  platform, 
guarding  the  steps  leading  to  the  latter,  is  a  small  body 
of  soldiers. 

There  is  some  delay  in  the  arrival  of  the  necessaxy 


288 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


number  of  judges  ;  during  which,  the  box,  in  which  the 
numbers  are  being  placed,  is  a  source  of  the  deepest  in- 
terest. When  the  box  is  full,  the  boy  who  is  to  draw 
the  numbers  out  of  it  becomes  the  prominent  feature  of 
the  proceedings.  He  is  already  dressed  for  his  part,  in  a 
tight  brown  Holland  coat,  with  only  one  (the  left)  sleeve 
to  it,  which  leaves  his  right  arm  bared  to  the  shoulder, 
ready  for  plunging  down  into  the  mysterious  chest. 

During  the  hush  and  whispe*  that  pervade  the  room, 
all  eyes  are  turned  on  this  young  minister  of  fortune. 
People  begin  to  inquire  his  age,  with  a  view  to  the  next 
lottery  ;  and  the  number  of  his  brothers  and  sisters  ;  and 
the  age  of  his  father  and  mother  ;  and  whether  he  has 
any  moles  or  pimples  upon  him  ;  and  where,  and  how 
many  ;  when  the  arrival  of  the  last  judge  but  one  (a  little 
old  man,  universally  dreaded  as  possessing  the  Evil  Eye) 
makes  a  slight  diversion,  and  would  occasion  a  greater 
one,  but  that  he  is  immediately  deposed,  as  a  source  of 
interest,  by  the  officiating  priest,  who  advances  gravely 
to  his  place,  followed  by  a  very  dirty  little  boy,  carrying 
his  sacred  vestments,  and  a  pot  of  Holy  Water. 

Here  is  the  last  judge  come  at  last,  and  now  he  takes 
his  place  at  the  horse- shoe  table  I 

There  is  a  murmur  of  irrepressible  agitation.  In  the 
midst  of  it,  the  priest  puts  his  head  into  the  sacred  vest- 
ments, and  pulls  the  same  over  his  shoulders.  Then  he 
says  a  silent  prayer  ;  and  dipping  a  brush  into  the  pot  of 
Holy  Water,  sprinkles  it  over  the  box  and  over  the  boy, 
and  gives  them  a  double-barrelled  blessing,  which  the 
box  and  the  boy  are  both  hoisted  on  the  table  to  receive. 
The  boy  remaining  on  the  table,  the  box  is  now  carried 
round  the  front  of  the  platform,  by  an  attendant,  who 
holds  it  up  and  shakes  it  lustily  all  the  time  ;  seeming 
to  say,  like  the  conjurer,  There  is  no  deception, 
ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  keep  your  eyes  upon  me,  if  you 
please  ! " 

At  last,  the  box  is  set  before  the  boy  ;  and  the  boy, 
first  holding  up  his  naked  arm  and  open  hand,  dives 
down  into  the  hole  (it  is  made  like  a  ballot-box)  and 
pulls  out  a  number,  which  is  rolled  up,  Tound  something 
hard,  like  a  bonbon.  This  he  hands  to  the  judge  next 
him,  who  unrolls  a  little  bit,  and  hands  it  to  the  Presi- 
dent, next  to  whom  he  sits.  The  President  unrolls  it, 
very  slowly.  The  Capo  Lazzarone  leans  over  his  shoulder. 
The  President  holds  it  up,  unrolled,  to  the  Capo  Lazza- 
rone. The  Capo  Lazzarone,  looking  at  it  eagerly,  cries 
out,  in  a  shrill  loud  voice,  Sessanta-due  !  "  (sixty -two), 
expressing  the  two  upon  his  fingers,  as  he  calls  it  out. 
Alas  !  the  Capo  Lazzarone  himself  has  not  staked  on 
sixty-two.    His  face  is  very  long,  and  his  eyes  roll  wildly. 

As  it  happens  to  be  a  favourite  number,  however,  it  is 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


289 


pretty  well  received,  which  is  not  always  tiie  case.  They 
are  all  drawn  with  the  same  ceremony,  omitting  the 
blessing.  One  blessing  is  enough  for  the  whole  multipli- 
cation-table. The  only  new  incident  in  the  proceedings,  is 
the  gradually  deepening  intensity  of  the  change  in  the 
Capo  Lazzarone,  who  has,  evidently,  speculated  to  the 
very  utmost  extent  of  his  means  ;  and  who,  when  he 
sees  the  last  number,  and  finds  that  it  is  not  one  of  his, 
clasps  his  hands,  and  raises  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling  be- 
fore proclaiming  it,  as  though  remonstrating,  in  a  secret 
agony,  with  his  patron  saint,  for  having  committed  so 
gross  a  breach  of  confidence.  I  hope  the  Capo  Lazza- 
rone may  not  desert  him  for  some  other  member  of  the 
Calendar,  but  he  seems  to  threaten  it. 

Where  the  winners  may  be,  nobody  knows.  They 
certainly  are  not  present ;  the  general  disappointment 
filling  one  with  pity  for  the  poor  people.  They  look 
when  we  stand  aside,  observing  them,  in  their  passage 
through  the  court-yard  down  below  :  as  miserable  as  the 
prisoners  in  the  gaol  (it  forms  a  part  of  the  building),  who 
are  peeping  down  upon  them,  from  between  their  bars  . 
or,  as  the  fragments  of  human  heads  which  are  still  dan- 
gling in  chains  outside,  in  memory  of  the  good  old  times, 
when  their  owners  were  strung  up  there,  for  the  popular 
edification. 

Away  from  Naples,  in  a  glorious  sunrise,  by  the  road 
to  Capua,  and  then  on  a  three  days'  journey  along  by 
roads,  that  we  may  see,  on  the  way,  the  monastery  of 
Monte  Cassino,  which  is  perched  on  the  steep  and  lofty 
hill  above  the  little  town  of  San  Germano,  and  is  lost  on 
a  misty  morning  in  the  clouds. 

So  much  the  better,  for  the  deep  sounding  of  its  bell, 
which,  as  we  go  winding  up,  on  mules,  towards  the  con- 
vent, is  heard  mysteriously  in  the  still  air,  while  nothing 
is  seen  but  the  grey  mist,  moving  solemnly  and  slowly, 
like  a  funeral  procession.  Behold,  at  length  the  shadowy 
pile  of  building  close  before  us  :  its  grey  walls  and 
towers  dimly  seen,  though  so  near  and  so  vast :  and  the 
raw  vapour  rolling  through  its  cloisters  heavily. 

There  are  two  black  shadows  walking  to  and  fro  in 
the  quadrangle,  near  the  statues  of  the  Patron  Saint  ana 
his  sister  ;  and  hopping  on  behind  them,  in  and  out  of 
the  old  arches,  is  a  raven,  croaking  in  answer  to  the  bell, 
and  uttering,  at  intervals,  the  purest  Tuscan.  How  like 
a  Jesuit  he  looks  !  There  never  was  a  sly  and  stealthy 
fellow  so  at  home  as  is  this  raven,  standing  now  at  the 
refectory  door,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  pretending 
to  glance  another  way,  while  he  is  scrutinizing  the  visitors 
keenly,  and  listening  with  fixed  attention.  What  a  dull- 
headed  monk  the  porter  becomes  in  comparison  ! 

"He  speaks  like  us!"  says  the  porter:  quite  as 
J  J  *  Vol.  lb; 


290  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


plainly."  Quite  as  plainly.  Porter.  Nothing  could  be 
more  expressive  than  his  reception  of  the  peasants  who 
are  entering  the  gate  with  baskets  and  burdens.  There 
is  a  roll  in  his  eye,  and  a  chuckle  in  his  throat,  which 
should  qualify  him  to  be  chosen  Superior  of  an  Order  of 
Ravens.  He  knows  all  about  it.  It's  all  right,"  he 
says.  "  We  know  what  we  know.  Come  along,  good 
people.    Glad  to  see  you  ! " 

How  was  this  extraordinary  structure  ever  built  in 
such  a  situation,  where  the  labour  of  conveying  the 
stone,  and  iron,  and  marble,  so  great  a  height  must  have 
been  prodigious  ?  Caw  !  says  the  raven,  welcoming 
the  peasants.  How,  being  despoiled  by  plunder,  fire  and 
earthquake,  has  it  risen  from  its  ruins,  and  been  again 
made  what  we  now  see  it,  with  its  church  so  sumptuous 
and  magnificent  ?  "  Caw  !  "  says  the  raven,  welcoming 
the  peasants.  These  people  have  a  miserable  appear- 
ance, and  (as  usual)  are  densely  ignorant,  and  all  beg, 
while  the  monks  are  chaunting  in  the  chapel.  Caw  ! " 
says  the  raven,    Cuckoo  !" 

So  we  leave  him,  chucking  and  rolling  his  eye  at  the 
convent  gate,  and  wind  slowly  down  again  through  the 
cloud.  At  last  emerging  from  it,  we  come  in  sight  of 
the  village  far  below,  and  the  flat  green  country  inter* 
sected  by  rivulets  ;  which  is  pleasant  and  fresh  to  se© 
after  the  obscurity  and  haze  of  the  convent — no  dis' 
respect  to  the  raven,  or  the  holy  friars. 

Away  w£  go  again,  by  muddy  roads,  and  through  the 
most  shattered  and  tattered  of  villages,  where  there  is 
not  a  whole  window  among  all  the  houses,  or  a  whole 
garment  among  all  the  peasants,  or  the  least  appearance 
of  anything  to  eat,  in  any  of  the  wretched  hucksters* 
shops.  The  women  wear  a  bright  red  bodice  laced  be- 
fore and  behind,  a  white  skirt,  and  the  Neapolitan  head- 
dress of  square  folds  of  linen,  primitively  meant  to  carry 
loads  on.  The  men  and  children  wear  anything  they 
can  get.  The  soldiers  are  as  dirty  and  rapacious  as  the 
dogs.  The  inns  are  such  hobgoblin  places,  that  they  are 
infinitely  more  attractive  and  amusing  than  the  best 
hotels  in  Paris.  Here  is  one  near  Valmontone  (that  if 
Valmontone,  the  round,  walled  town  on  the  mount  oppo^ 
site)  which  is  approached  by  a  quagmire  almost  knee- 
deep.  There  is  a  wild  colonnade  below,  and  a  dark  yard 
full  of  empty  stables  and  lofts,  and  a  great  long  kitchen 
with  a  great  long  bench  and  a  great  long  form,  where  a 
party  of  travellers,  with  two  priests  among  them,  are 
crowding  round  the  fire  while  their  supper  is  cooking. 
Above  stairs,  is  a  rough  brick  gallery  to  sit  in,  with  very 
little  windows  with  very  small  patches  of  knotty  glass 
in  them,  and  all  the  doors  that  open  from  it  (a  dozen  or 
two)  off  their  hinges,  and  «  barf^  board  on  tressels  for  a 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


291 


table,- at  which  thirty  people  might  dine  easily,  and  a 
fire-place  large  enough  in  itself  for  a  breakfast  parlour, 
where,  as  the  faggots  blaze  and  crackle,  they  illuminate 
the  ugliest  and  grimmest  of  faces,  drawn  in  charcoal  on 
the  whitewashed  chimney-sides  by  previous  travellers. 
There  is  a  flaring  country  lamp  on  the  table  ;  and,  hov- 
ering about  it,  scratching  her  thick  black  hair  contin- 
ually, a  yellow  dwarf  of  a  woman,  who  stands  on  tip-toe 
to  arrange  the  hatchet  kni  ves,  and  takes  a  fljing  leap  to 
look  into  the  water-jug.  The  beds  in  th*e  adjoining 
rooms  are  of  the  liveliest  kind.  There  is  not  a  solitary 
scrap  of  looking-glass  in  the  house,  and  the  washing 
apparatus  is  identical  with  the  cooking  utensils.  But 
the  yellow  dwarf  sets  on  the  table  a  good  flask  of  excel- 
lent wine,  holding  a  quart  at  least ;  and  produces,  among 
half-a-dozen  other  dishes,  two  thirds  of  a  roasted  kid, 
smoking  hot.  She  is  as  good-humoured,  too,  as  dirty, 
which  is  saying  a  great  deal.  So  here's  long  life  to  her, 
in  a  flask  of  wine,  and  prosperity  to  the  establishment. 

Rome  gained  and  left  behind,  and  with  it  the  Pilgrims 
who  are  now  repairing  to  their  own  homes  again — each 
with  his  scallop  shell  and  staff,  and  soliciting  alms  for 
the  love  of  God— we  come,  by  a  fair  country,  to  the 
Falls  of  Terni,  where  the  whole  Velino  river  dashes, 
headlong,  from  a  rocky  height,  amidst  shining  spray  and 
rainbows.  Perugia,  strongly  fortified  by  art  and  nature, 
on  a  lofty  eminence,  rising  abruptly  from  the  plain 
where  pui*ple  mountains  mingle  with  the  distant  sky,  is 
glowing  on  its  market  day,  with  radiant  colours.  They 
set  off  its  sombre  but  rich  Gothic  buildings  admirably. 
The  pavement  of  its  market-place  is  strewn  with  country 
goods.  All  along  the  steep  hill  leading  from  the  town, 
under  the  town  wall,  there  is  a  noisy  fair  of  calves, 
lambs,  pigs,  horses,  mules,  and  oxen.  Fowls,  geese,  and 
turkeys,  flutter  vigorously  among  their  very  hoofs  ;  and 
buyers,  sellers,  and  speculators,  clustering  everywhere, 
block  up  the  road  as  we  come  shouting  down  upon  them. 

Suddenly,  there  is  a  ringing  sound  among  our  horses. 
The  driver  stops  them.  Sinking  in  his  saddle,  and  cast 
ing  up  his  eyes  to  Heaven,  he  delivers  this  apostrophe, 
'*0h  Jove  Omnipotent!  here  is  a  horse  has  lost  hii; 
shoe  !" 

Notwithstanding  the  tremendous  nature  of  this  acci- 
dent, and  the  utterly  forlorn  look  and  gesture  (impos= 
sible  in  any  one  but  an  Italian  Vetturmo)  with  which  it 
is  announced,  it  is  not  long  in  being  repaired  by  a  mortal 
Farrier,  by  whose  assistance  we  reach  Castiglione,  the 
same  night,  and  Arezzo  next  day.  Mass  is,  of  course, 
performing  in  its  fine  cathedral,  where  the  sun  shines  in 
among  the  clustered  pillars,  through  rich  stained-glass 
windows ;  half  revealing,  half  concealing  the  kneeling 


2-)2  WOKKIS  OF  CHAKLEiS  DICKENS. 

figures  on  the  paveinent,  and  striking  out  paths  of  spot- 
ted light  in  the  long  aisles. 

But,  how  much  beauty  of  another  kind  is  here,  when, 
on  a  fair  clear  morning,  we  look,  from  the  summit  of  a 
hill,  on  Florence  !  See  where  it  lies  before  us  in  a  sud- 
iighted  valley,  bright  with  the  winding  Amo,  and  shut 
in  by  sw^elling  hills  ;  its  domes,  and  towers,  and  palaces, 
rising  from  the  rich  country  in  a  glittering  heap,  and 
shining  in  the  sun  like  gold  ! 

Magnificently  stern  and  sombre  are  the  streets  of  beau- 
tiful Florence  ;  and  the  strong  old  piles  of  building  made 
such  heaps  of  shadow,  on  the  ground  and  in  the  river, 
that  there  is  another  and  a  different  city  of  rich  forms 
and  fancies,  always  lying  at  our  feet.  Prodigious  pal- 
aces, constructed  for  defence,  with  small  distrustful 
windows  heavily  barred,  and  walls  of  great  thickness 
formed  of  huge  masses  of  rough  stone,  frown,  in  their 
old  sulky  state,  on  every  street.  In  the  midst  of  the 
city — in  the  Piazza  of  the  Grand  Duke,  adorned  with 
beautiful  statues  and  the  Fountain  of  Neptune — rise^ 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  with  its  enormous  overhanging  bat- 
tlements, and  the  Great  Tower  - that  watches  over  the 
whole  town.  In  its  court-yard — worthy  of  the  Castle  of 
Otranto  in  its  ponderous  gloom — is  a  'massive  staircase 
that  the  heaviest  waggon  and  the  stoutest  team  of  horses 
might  be  driven  up.  Within  it,  is  a  Great  Saloon,  faded 
and  tarnished  in  its  stately  decorations,  and  mouldering 
by  grains,  but  recording  yet,  in  pictures  on  its  walls,  the 
triumphs  of  the  Medici  and  the  v^ars  of  the  old  Floren- 
tine people.  The  prison  is  hard  by,  in  an  adjacent  court- 
yard of  the  building — a  foul  and  dismal  place,  where 
some  men  are  shut  up  close,  in  small  cells  like  ovens  ; 
and  where  others  look  through  bars  and  beg  ;  where 
some  are  placing  draughts,  and  some  are  talking  to  their 
friends,  who  smoke,  the  while,  to  purify  the  air;  and 
some  are  buying  wine  and  fruit  of  women-vendors  ;  and 
all  are  squalid,  dirty,  and  vile  to  look  at.  "  They  are 
merry  enough,  Signore,"  says  the  Jailer.  They  are  al! 
blood-stained  here,"  he  adds,  indicating,  with  his  hand, 
three-fourths  of  the  whole  building.  Before  the  hour  is 
out,  an  old  man,  eighty  years  of  age,  quarrelling  over 
bargain  with  a  young  girl  of  seventeen,  stabs  her  dead, 
in  the  market-place  full  of  bright  flowers ;  and  is  brought 
in  prisoner,  to  swell  the  number. 

Among  the  four  old  bridges  that  span  the  river,  the 
Ponte  Vecchio — that  bridge  which  is  covered  with  the 
shops  of  Jewellers  and  Goldsmiths — is  a  most  enchanting 
feature  in  the  scene.  The  space  of  one  house,  in  the 
centre,  being  left  open,  the  view  beyond,  is  shown  as  in 


PICTUREa  FROM  ITALY. 


a  frame ;  and  tliat  precious  glimpse  of  sky,  and  water, 
and  rich  buildings,  shining  so  quietly  among  the  huddled 
roofs  and  gables  on  the  bridg*^,  is  exquisite.  Above  it, 
the  Gallery  of  the  Grand  Duke  crosses  the  river.  It  was 
built  to  connect  the  two  Great  Palaces  by  a  secret  pas- 
sage ;  and  it  takes  its  jealous  course  among  the  streets 
and  houses,  with  true  despotism  :  going  where  it  lists, 
and  spurning  every  obstacle  away,  before  it. 

The  Grand  Duke  has  a  worthier  secret  passage  through 
the  streets,  in  his  black  robe  and  hood,  as  a  member  of 
the  Campagnia  della  Misericordia,  which  brotherhood 
includes  all  ranks  of  men.  If  an  accident  takes  place, 
their  office  is,  to  raise  the  sufferer,  and  bear  him  tenderly 
to  the  Hospital.  If  a  jSre  break  out,  it  is  one  of  their 
functions  to  repair  to  the  spot,  and  render  their  assistance 
and  protection.  It  is,  also,  among  their  commonest 
offices,  to  attend  and  console  the  sick  ;  and  they  neither 
receive  money,  nor  eat,  nor  drink,  in  any  house  they 
visit  for  this  purpose.  Those  who  are  on  duty  for  the 
time,  are  called  together,  on  a  moment's  notice,  by  the 
tolling  of  the  great  bell  of  the  Tower  ;  and  it  is  said  that 
the  Grand  Duke  has  been  seen,  at  this  sound,  to  rise  from 
his  seat  at  table,  and  quietly  withdraw  to  attend  the 
summons. 

In  this  other  large  Piazza,  where  an  irregular  kind  of 
market  is  held,  and  stores  of  old  iron  and  other  small 
merchandise  are  set  out  on  stalls,  or  scattered  on  the 
pavement,  are  grouped  together,  the  Cathedral  with  its 
great  Dome,  the  beautiful  Italian  Gothic  Tower,  the 
Campanile,  and  the  Baptistry,  with  its  wrought  bronze 
doors.  And  here,  a  small  untrodden  square  in  the  pave- 
ment. Is  **the  stone  of  Dante,'*  where  (so  runs  the  story) 
he  was  used  to  bring  his  stool,  and  sit  in  contemplation. 
I  wonder  was  he  ever,  in  his  bitter  exile,  wicMieM  from 
<iursmg  the  very  stones  in  the  streets  of  Florence  the 
ungrateful,  by  any  kind  remembrance  of  this  old  musing* 
place,  and  its  association  with  gentle  thoughts  of  little 
Beatrice  ! 

The  chapel  of  the  Medici,  the  Good  and  Bad  Angels, 
of  Florence  ;  the  church  of  Santa  Croce  where  Michael 
Angelo  lies  buried,  and  where  every  stone  in  the  cloisters 
is  eloquent  on  great  men's  deaths  ;  innumerable  churches, 
often  masses  of  unfinished  heavy  brickwork  externally, 
but  solemn  and  serene  within  ;  arrest  our  lingering 
steps,  in  strolling  through  the  city. 

In  keeping  v/ith  the  tombs  among  the  cloisters,  is  th^ 
Museum  of  Natural  History,  famous  through  the  world 
for  its  preparations  in  wax ;  beginning  with  models  of 
leaves,  seeds,  plants,  inferior  animals  ;  and  gradually 
ascending,  through  separate  organs  of  the  human  frame^ 


294  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

up  to  tlie  whole  structure  of  that  wonderful  creation, 
exquisitely  represented,  as  in  recent  death.  Few  ad- 
monitions of  our  frail  mortality  can  be  more  solemn  and 
more  sad,  or  strike  so  home  upon  the  heart,  as  the 
counterfeits  of  Youth  and  Beauty  that  are  lying  there, 
upon  their  beds,  in  their  last  sleep. 

Beyond  the  walls,  the  w^hole  sweet  Valley  of  the  A  mo, 
^;he  convent  at  Fiesole,  the  Tower  of  Galileo,  Boccaccio's 
house,  old  villas  and  retreats  ;  innumerable  spots  of 
interest,  all  glowing  in  a  landscape  of  surpassing  beauty 
steeped  in  the  richest  light ;  are  spread  before  us.  Re- 
turning from  so  much  brightness,  how  solemn  and  how 
grand  the  streets  again,  with  their  great,  dark,  mournful 
palaoes,  and  many  legends :  not  of  siege,  and  war,  and 
might,  and  Iron  Hand  alone,  but  of  the  triumphant 
growth  of  peaceful  Arts  and  Sciences. 

What  light  is  shed  upon  the  world,  at  this  day,  from 
amidst  these  rugged  Palaces  of  Florence  !  Here,  open  to 
all  comers,  in  their  beautiful  and  calm  retreats,  the  an- 
cient Sculptors  are  immortal,  side  by  side  with  Michael 
Angelo,  Canova,  Titian,  Rembrandt,  Raphael,  Poets,  His- 
torians, Philosophers — those  illustrious  men  of  history, 
beside  whom  its  crowned  heads  and  harnessed  warriors 
show  so  poor  and  small,  and  are  so  soon  forgotten.  Here, 
the  imperishable  part  of  noble  minds  survives,  placid 
and  equal,  when  strongholds  of  assault  and  defence  are 
overthrown  ;  when  the  tyranny  of  the  many,  or  the  few, 
or  both,  is  but  a  tale  ;  when  Pride  and  Power  are  so 
much  cloistered  dust.  The  fire  within  the  stern  strests, 
and  among  the  massive  Palaces  and  Towers,  kindled  by 
rays  from  Heaven,  is  still  burning  brightly,  when  the 
flickering  of  war  is  extinguished  and  the  household  fires 
of  generations  have  decayed  ;  as  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands of  faces,  rigid  with  the  strife  and  passion  of  the 
hour,  have  faded  out  of  the  old  Squares  and  public 
haunts,  while  the  nameless  Florentine  Lady,  preserved 
from  oblivion  by  a  Painter's  hand,  yet  lives  on,  in  endur- 
ing grace  and  youth. 

Let  us  look  back  on  Florence  while  we  may,  and  when 
its  shining  Dome  is  seen  no  more,  go  travelling  through 
cheerful  Tuscany,  with  a  bright  remembrance  of  it ; 
for  Italy  will  be  the  fairer  for  the  recollection.  Th© 
summer  time  being  come  :  and  Genoa,  and  Milan,  and 
the  Lake  of  Como  lying  far  behind  us  :  and  we  resting  at 
Faido,  a  Swiss  village,  near  the  awful  rocks  and  moun- 
tains, the  everlasting  snows  and  roaring  cataracts,  of  the 
Great  Saint  Gothard  :  hearing  the  Italian  tongue  for  the 
last  time  on  this  journey  :  let  us  part  from  Italy  with  all 
its  miseries  and  wrongs,  affectionately,  in  our  admiration 
of  the  beauties,  natural  and  artificial,  of  which  it  is  full 
to  overflowing,  and  in  our  tenderness  towards  a  people, 
naturally  well  disposed,  and  patient,  and  sweet  tem- 


PICTURES  FROM  ITALY. 


295 


pered.  Years  of  neglect,  oppression,  and  misrule,  have 
been  at  work,  to  change  their  nature  and  reduce  their 
spirit ;  miserable  jealousies,  fomented  by  petty  Princes 
to  whonj  union  was  destruction,  and  division  strength, 
have  been  a  canker  at  the  root  of  their  natior  ality,  and 
have  barbarized  their  language  ;  but  the  good  that  was 
in  them  ever,  is  in  them  yet,  and  a  noble  people  maybe, 
one  day,  raised  up  from  these  ashes.  Let  us  entertain 
that  hope  !  And  let  us  not  remember  Italy  the  less  re- 
gardful! y,  because,  in  every  fragment  of  her  fallen  Tem- 
ples, and  every  stone  of  her  deserted  palaces  and  prisons, 
she  helps  to  inculcate  the  lesson  that  the  wheel  of  Time 
is  rolling  for  an  end,  and  that  the  world  is,  in  all  great 
essentials,  better,  gentler,  more  forbearing,  and  more 
hopeful,  as  it  rolls  I 


END  OF  *' PICTURES  FROM  ITALY." 


The  Uncommerotal 
Traveller. 


I. 

His  General  Line  of  Bitsiness. 

AiiLOW  me  to  introduce  myself, — first  negatively. 

No  landlord  is  my  friend  and  brother,  no  chambermaid 
loves  me,  no  waiter  worships  me,  no  boots  admires  and 
envies  me.  No  round  of  beef  or  tongue  or  ham  is  ex- 
pressly cooked  for  me,  no  pigeon-pie  is  especially  made 
for  me,  no  hotel  advertisement  is  personally  addressed 
to  me,  no  hotel-room  tapestried  with  great-coats  and  rail- 
way wrappers  is  set  apart  for  me,  no  house  of  public 
entertainment  in  the  United  Kingdom  greatly  cares  for 
my  opinion  of  its  brandy  or  sherry.  When  I  go  upon  my 
journeys  I  am  not  usually  rated  at  a  low  figure  in  the 
bill ;  when  I  come  home  from  my  journeys  I  never  get 
any  commission.  I  know  nothing  about  prices,  and  should 
have  no  idea,  if  I  were  put  to  it,  how  to  wheedle  a  man 
into  ordering  something  he  doesn't  want.  As  a  town 
traveller  I  am  never  to  be  seen  driving  a  vehicle  exter- 
nally like  a  young  and  volatile  piano-forte  van,  and  in- 
ternally like  an  oven  in  which  a  number  of  flat  boxes 
are  baking  in  layers.  As  a  country  traveller  I  am  rarely 
to  be  found  in  a  gig,  and  am  never  to  be  encountered  by 
a  pleasure  train,  waiting  on  the  platform  of  a  branch  sta- 
tion, quite  a  Druid  in  the  midst  of  a  light  Stonehenge  of 
samples. 

And  yet — proceeding  now  to  introduce  myself  positive- 
ly— I  am  both  a  town  traveller  and  a  country  traveller, 
and  am  always  on  the  road.  Figuratively  speaking, 
1  travel  for  the  great  house  of  Human  Interest  Brothers, 
and  have  rather  a  large  connection  in  the  fancy-goods 
way.  Literally  speaking,  I  am  always  wandering  here 
and  there  from  my  rooms  in  Coven t  Garden,  LoiSon,— 


298 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


now  about  the  city  streets,  now  about  the  country  by- 
roads,— seeing  many  little  things,  and  some  great  things, 
which,  because  they  interest  me,  I  think  may  interest 
others. 

These  are  my  brief  credentials  as  the  Uncommercial 
Traveller. 


IL 

The  Shipwreck. 

Never  had  I  seen  a  year  going  out,  or  going  on,  under 
quieter  circumstances.  Eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-nine 
hadl^ut  another  day  to  live,  and  truly  its  end  was  Peace 
on  that  sea-shore  that  morning. 

So  settled  and  orderly  was  everything  seaward,  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  sun  and  under  the  transparent  shad- 
ows of  the  clouds,  that  it  was  hard  to  imagine  the  bay 
otherwise,  for  years  past  or  to  come,  than  it  was  that 
very  day.  The  Tug  steamer  lying  a  little  off  the  shore, 
the  Lighter  lying  still  nearer  to  the  shore,  the  boat  along- 
side the  Lighter,  the  regularly  turning  windlass  aboard 
the  Lighter,  the  methodical  figures  at  work,  all  slowly 
and  regularly  heaving  up  and  down  with  the  breathing 
of  the  sea, — all  seemed  as  much  a  part  of  the  nature  of 
the  place  as  the  tide  itself.  The  tide  was  on  the  flow, 
and  had  been  for  some  two  hours  and  a  half  ;  there  was 
a  slight  obstruction  in  the  sea  within  a  few  yards  of  my 
feet,  as  if  the  stump  of  a  tree,  with  earth  enough  about 
it  to  keep  it  from  lying  horizontally  on  the  water,  had 
slipped  a  little  from  the  land ;  and  as  I  stood  upon  the 
beach,  and  observed  it  dimpling  the  light  swell  that  was 
coming  in,  I  cast  a  stone  over  it. 

So  orderly,  so  quiet,  so  regular, — the  rising  and  falling 
of  the  Tug  steamer,  the  Lighter,  and  the  boat, — the 
turning  of  the  windlass, — the  coming  in  of  the  tide, — that 
I  myself  seemed,  to  my  own  thinking,  anything  but  ne\5L 
to  the  spot.  Yet  I  had  never  seen  it  in  my  life  a  minutt 
before,  and  had  traversed  two  hundred  miles  to  get  at  it. 
That  very  morning  I  had  come  bowling  down,  and  strug- 
gling up,  hill-country  roads  ;  looking  back  at  snowy 
summits  ;  meeting  courteous  peasants  well  to  do,  driving 
fat  pigs  and  cattle  to  market ;  noting  the  neat  and  fchrifty 
dwellings,  with  their  unusual  quantity  of  clean  white 
linen  drying  on  the  bushes  ;  having  windy  weather  sug- 
gested by  every  cotter's  little  rick,  with  its  thatch 
straw-ridged  and  extra  straw-ridged  into  overlapping 
compartments,  like  the  back  of  a  rhinoceros.  Had  I  not 
given  a  lift  of  fourteen  miles  to  the  Coast  Guardsman 
(kit  and  all)  who  was  coming  to  his  spell  of  duty  there. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  299 


and  had  we  not  Just  now  parted  company  ?  So  It  was  ; 
but  the  journey  seemed  to  glide  down  into  the  placid 
sea,  with  other  chafe  and  trouble,  and  for  the  moment 
nothing  was  so  calmly  and  monotonously  real  under  the 
sunlight  as  the  geutle  rising  and  falling  of  the  water 
with  its  freight,  the  regular  turning  of  the  windlass 
aboard  the  Lighter,  and  the  slight  obstruction  so  very 
near  my  feet. 

O  reader,  haply  turning  this  page  by  the  fireside  at 
Home,  and  hearing  the  night- wind  rumble  in  the  chim- 
ney, that  slight  obstruction  was  the  uppermost  frag- 
ment of  the  Wreck  of  the  **  Royal  Charter,"  Australian 
trader  and  passenger  ship,  Homeward  bound,  that  struck 
here  on  the  terrible  morning  of  the  twenty-sixth  of  this 
October,  broke  into  three  parts,  went  down  with  her 
treasure  of  at  least  five  hundred  human  lives,  and  has 
never  stirred  since  1 

From  which  point,  or  from  which,  she  drove  ashore, 
stem  foremost  ;  on  which  side,  or  on  which,  she  passed 
the  little  Island  in  the  bay,  for  ages  henceforth  to  be 
aground  certain  yards  outside  her, — these  are  rendered 
bootless  questions  by  the  darkness  of  that  night  and  the 
darkness  of  death.    Here  she  went  down. 

Even  as  I  stood  on  the  beach,  with  the  words,  Here 
she  went  down  ! "  in  my  ears,  a  diver  in  his  grotesque 
dress  dipped  heavily  over  the  side  of  the  boat  alongside 
the  Lighter,  and  dropped  to  the  bottom.  On  the  shore 
by  the  water's  edge  was  a  rough  tent,  made  of  fragments 
of  wreck,  where  other  divers  and  workmen  sheltered 
themselves,  and  where  they  had  kept  Christmas  day, 
with  rum  and  roast  beef,  to  the  destruction  of  their  frail 
chimney.  Cast  up  among  the  stones  and  boulders  of 
the  beach  were  great  spars  of  the  lost  vessel,  and  masses 
of  iron  twisted  by  the  fury  of  the  sea  into  the  strangest 
forms.  The  timber  was  already  bleached  and  iron- 
rusted,  and  even  these  objects  did  no  violence  to  the 
prevailing  air  the  whole  scene  wore  of  having  been  ex- 
actly the  same  for  years  and  years. 

Yet  only  two  short  months  had  gone  since  a  man,  liv- 
ing on  the  nearest  hill-top  overlooking  the  sea,  being 
blown  out  of  bed  at  about  daybreak  by  the  wind  that 
had  begun  to  strip  his  roof  off,  and  getting  upon  a  ladder 
with  his  nearest  neighbour  to  construct  some  temporary 
device  for  keeping  his  house  over  his  head,  saw  from 
the  ladder's  elevation,  as  he  looked  down  by  chance  to- 
wards the  shore,  some  dark,  troubled  object  close  in 
with  the  land.  And  he  and  the  other,  descending  to  the 
beach,  and  finding  the  sea  mercilessly  beating  over  a 
^reat  broken  ship,  had  clambered  up  the  stony  ways, 
like  staircases  without  stairs,  on  which  the  wild  village 
ban  OS  in  little  clusters,  as  fruit  hanp-s  on  boughs,  and 


300 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


had  given  the  alarm.  And  so,  over  tiie  hill-slopes,  and 
past  the  waterfall,  and  down  the  gullies  where  the  land 
drains  off  into  the  ocean,  the  scattered  quarrymen  and 
fishermen  inhabiting  that  part  of  Wales  had  come  run- 
ning to  the  dismal  sight, — their  clergyman  among  them. 
And  as  they  stood  in  the  leaden  morning,  stricken  with 
pity,  leaning  hard  against  the  wind,  their  breath  and 
vision  often  failing  as  the  sleet  and  spray  rushed  at 
them  from  the  ever  forming  and  dissolving  mountains  ot 
sea,  and  as  the  w^ool  which  was  a  part  of  the  vessel's 
cargo  blew  in  with  the  salt  foam  and  remained  upon  the 
land  when  the  foam  melted,  they  saw  the  ship's  life- 
boat put  off  from  one  of  the  heaps  of  wreck  ;  and  first, 
there  were  three  men  in  her  ;  and  in  a  moment  she  cap- 
sized, and  there  were  but  two  ;  and  again,  she  was 
struck  by  a  vast  mass  of  water,  and  there  was  but  one  ; 
and  again  she  was  thrown  bottom  upward,  and  that  one, 
with  his  arm  stuck  through  the  broken  planks,  and  wav- 
ing as  if  for  the  help  that  could  never  reach  him,  went 
down  into  the  deep. 

It  was  the  clergyman  himself  from  whom  I  heard  this, 
while  I  stood  on  the  shore,  looking  in  his  kind  whole- 
some face  as  it  turned  to  the  spot  where  the  boat  had 
been.  The  divers  were  down  then,  and  busy.  They 
were  lifting"  to-day  the  gold  found  yesterday, — some 
five-and-twenty  thousand  pounds.  Of  three  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  gold,  three  hundred 
thousand  pounds'  worth,  in  round  numbers,  was  at  that 
time  recovered.  The  great  bulk  of  the  remainder  was 
surely  and  steadily  coming  up.  Some  loss  of  sovereigns 
there  would  be,  of  course  ;  indeed,  at  first,  sovereigns 
had  drifted  in  with  the  sand,  and  been  scattered  far  and 
wide  over  the  beach,  like  sea-shells  ;  but  most  other 
golden  treasure  would  be  found.  As  it  was  brought  up, 
it  went  aboard  the  Tug  steamer,  where  good  account 
was  taken  of  it.  So  tremendous  had  the  force  of  the 
sea  been  when  it  broke  the  ship,  that  it  had  beaten  one 
great  ingot  of  gold  deep  into  a  strong  and  heavy  piece  of 
her  solid  iron  work ;  in  which  also,  several  loose  sover- 
eigns that  the  ingot  had  swept  in  before  it  had  been 
found,  as  firmly  embedded  as  though  the  iron  had  been 
liquid  when  they  were  forced  there.  It  had  been  re- 
marked of  such  bodies  come  ashore,  too,  as  had  been 
seen  by  scientific  men,  that  they  had  been  stunned  to 
death,  and  not  suffocated.  Observation  both  of  the  in- 
ternal change  that  had  been  wrought  in  them  and  of 
their  external  expression,  showed  death  to  have  been 
thus  merciful  and  easy.  The  report  was  brought,  while 
I  was  holding  such  discourse  on  the  beach,  that  no  more 
bodies  had  come  ashore  since  last  night.  It  began  to  be 
very  doubtful  whether  many  more  would  be  thrown  up. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLEK. 


301 


until  the  northeast  winds  of  the  early  spring  set  in. 
Moreover,  a  great  number  of  the  passengers,  and  par- 
ticularly the  second-class  women  passengers,  were  knov/n 
to  have  been  in  the  middle  of  the  ship  v/hen  she  parted, 
and  thus  the  collapsing  wreck  would  have  fallen  upon 
them  after  yawning  open,  and  would  keep  them  down. 
A  diver  made  known,  even  then,  that  he  had  come  upon 
the  body  of  a  man,  and  had  sought  to  release  it  from  z 
great  superincumbent  weight  ;  but  that,  finding  he  could 
not  do  so  without  mutilating  the  remains,  he  had  left  it 
where  it  was. 

It  was  the  kind  and  wholesome  face  I  have  made  men- 
tion of  as  being  then  beside  me  that  I  had  purposed  to 
myself  to  see  when  I  left  home  for  Wales.  I  had  heard 
of  that  clergyman,  as  having  buried  many  scores  of  the 
shipwrecked  people  ;  of  his  having  opened  his  house  and 
heart  to  their  agonized  friends  ;  of  his  having  used  a 
most  sweet  and  patient  diligence  for  weeks  and  weeks  in 
the  performance  of  the  forlornest  offices  that  Man  can 
render  to  his  kind  ;  of  his  having  most  tenderly  and 
thoroughly  devoted  himself  to  the  dead,  and  to  those 
who  were  sorrowing  for  the  dead.  I  had  said  to  myself, 
'*In  the  Christmas  season  of  the  year,  I  should  like  to 
see  that  man!"  And  he  had  swung  the  gate  of  his 
little  garden,  in  coming  out  to  meet  me,  not  half  an  hour 
ago. 

So  cheerful  of  spirit  and  guiltless  of  affectation  as  true 
practical  Christianity  ever  is  I  I  read  more  of  the  New 
Testament  in  the  fresh,  frank  face  going  up  the  village 
beside  me,  in  five  minutes,  than  I  have  read  in  anathe- 
matizing discourses  (albeit  put  to  press  with  enormous 
flourishing  of  trumpets)  in  all  my  life.  I  heard  more  of 
the  Sacred  Book  in  the  cordial  voice  that  had  nothing  to 
say  about  its  owner,  than  in  all  the  would-be  celestial 
l>airs  of  bellows  that  have  ever  blown  conceit  at  me. 

We  climbed  towards  the  little  church  at  a  cheery  pace 
among  the  loose  stones,  the  deep  mud,  the  wet  coarse 
grass,  the  outlying  water,  and  other  obstructions  from 
which  frost  and  snow  had  lately  thawed.  It  was  a  mis- 
take (my  friend  was  glad  to  tell  me,  on  the  way)  to  sup. 
pose  that  the  peasantry  had  shown  any  superstitious 
avoidance  of  the  drowned  ;  on  the  whole,  they  had  done 
very  well,  and  had  assisted  readily.  Ten  shillings  had 
been  paid  for  the  bringing  of  each  body  up  to  the 
church  ;  but  the  way  was  steep,  and  a  horse  and  cart  (in 
which  it  was  wrapped  in  a  sheet)  were  necessary,  and 
three  or  four  men,  and  all  things  considered,  it  was  not 
a  great  price.  The  people  were  none  the  richer  for  th© 
wreck,  for  it  was  the  season  of  the  herring-shoal, — and 
who  could  cast  nets  for  fish,  and  find  dead  men  and 
women  in  the  draught? 


302  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


He  had  the  church  "keys  in  his  hand,  and  opened  the 
church-yard  gate,  and  opened  the  church  door  ;  and  we 
went  in. 

It  is  a  little  church  of  great  antiquity  ;  there  is  reason 
to  helieve  that  some  church  has  occupied  the  spot  these 
thousand  years  or  more.  The  pulpit  was  gone,  and 
other  things  usually  belonging  to  the  church  were  gone, 
owing  to  its  living  congregation  having  deserted  it  for 
the  neighbouring  school-room,  and  yielded  it  up  to  the 
dead.  The  very  Commandments  had  been  shouldered 
out  of  their  places,  in  the  bringing  in  of  the  dead  ;  the 
black  wooden  tables  on  which  they  were  painted  were 
askew  ;  and  on  the  stone  pavement  below  them,  and  on 
the  stone  pavement  all  over  the  church,  were  the  marks 
and  stains  where  the  drowned  had  been  laid  down.  The 
eye,  with  little  or  no  aid  from  the  imagination,  could  yet 
see  how  the  bodies  had  been  turned,  and  where  the  head 
had  been,  and  where  the  feet.  Some  faded  traces  of 
the  wreck  of  the  Australian  ship  may  be  discernible  on 
the  stone  pavement  of  this  little  church  hundreds  of 
years  hence,  when  the  digging  for  gold  in  'Australia 
shall  have  long  and  long  ceased  out  of  the  land. 

Forty-four  shipwrecked  men  ^nd  women  lay  here  at 
one  time,  awaiting  burial.  Here,  with  weeping  and 
wailing  in  every  room  of  his  house,  my  cosnpanion 
worked  alone  f  hours ,  solemnly  surrounded  by  eyes 
that  could  not  se-  him,  and  by  lips  that  could  not  speak 
to  him,  patiently  examining  the  tattered  clothing,  cut- 
ting oif  buttons,  hair,  marks  from  linen,  anything  that 
might  lead  to  subsequent  identification,  studying  faces, 
looking  for  a  scar,  a  bent  finger,  a  crooked  toe,  compar- 
ing letters  sent  to  him  with  the  ruin  about  him.  **My 
dearest  brother  had  bright  gray  eyes  and  a  pleasant 
smile,"  one  sister  wrote.  O  poor  sister  !  well  for  you 
to  be  far  from  here,  and  keep  that  as  your  last  remem- 
brance of  him  I 

The  ladies  of  the  clergyman's  family,  his  wife  and 
two  sisters-in-law,  came  in  among  the  bodies  often.  It 
grew  to  be  the  business  of  their  lives  to  do  so.  Any 
new  arrival  of  a  bereaved  woman  would  stimulate  their 
pity  to  compare  the  description  brought  with  the  dread 
realities.    Sometimes  they  would  go  back,  able  to  say, 

1  have  found  him,"  or,  think  she  lies  there."  Per- 
haps the  mourner,  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  all  that 
lay  in  the  church,  would  be  led  in  blindfold.  Conducted 
to  the  spot  with  many  compassionate  words,  and  en- 
couraged to  look,  she  would  say,  with  a  piercing  cry, 
**  This  is  my  boy  I "  and  drop  insensible  on  the  insensi- 
ble figure. 

He  soon  observed  that  in  some  cases  of  women  the 
identification  of  persons,  though  complete,  was  quite  at 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


303 


variance  with  the  marks  upon  the  linen  ;  this  led  him  to 
notice  that  even  the  marks  upon  the  linen  were  some- 
times inconsistent  with  one  another ;  and  thus  he  came 
to  understand  that  they  had  dressed  in  great  haste  and 
agitation,  and  that  their  clothes  had  become  mixed  to- 
gether. The  identification  of  men  by  their  dress  was 
rendered  extremely  difficult,  in  consequence  of  a  large 
proportion  of  them  being  dressed  alike, — in  clothes  of 
one  kind,  that  is  to  say,  supplied  by  slopsellers  and  out- 
fitters, and  not  made  by  single  garments,  but  by  hun- 
dreds. Many  of  the  men  were  bringing  over  parrots, 
and  had  receipts  upon  them  for  the  price  of  the  birds  ; 
others  had  bills  of  exchange  in  their  pockets  or  in  belts. 
Some  of  these  documents,  carefully  unwrinkled  and 
dried,  were  little  less  fresh  in  appearance  that  day  than 
the  present  page  will  be,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
after  having  been  opened  three  or  four  times. 

In  that  lonely  place  it  had  not  been  easy  to  obtain 
even  such  common  Commodities  in  towns  as  ordinary  dis- 
infectants. Pitch  had  been  burnt  in  the  church,  as  the 
readiest  thing  at  hand  ;  and  the  frying-pan  in  which  it 
had  bubbled  over  a  brazier  of  coal  was  still  there,  with 
its  ashes.  Hard  by  the  Communion  Table  were  some 
boots  that  had  been  taken  off  the  drowned,  and  pre- 
served,— a  gold-digger's  boot,  cut  down  the  leg  for  its 
removal,  a  trodden-down  man's  ankle -boot  with  a  buff 
cloth  top, — and  others, — soaked  and  sandy,  weedy  and 
salt. 

From  the  church  we  passed  out  into  the  churchyard. 
Here  they  lay,  at  that  time,  one  hundred  and  forty-five 
bodies  that  had  come  ashore  from  the  wreck.  He  had 
buried  them,  when  not  identified,  in  graves  containing 
four  each.  He  had  numbered  each  body  in  a  register 
describing  it,  and  had  placed  a  corresponding  number 
on  each  coffin,  and  over  each  grave.  Identified  bodies 
he  had  buried  singly,  in  private  graves,  in  another  part 
of  the  churchyard.  Several  bodies  had  been  exhumed 
from  the  graves  of  four,  as  relatives  had  come  from  a 
distance,  and  seen  his  register  ;  and,  when  recognized, 
these  have  been  reburied  in  private  graves,  so  that  the 
mourners  might  erect  separate  headstones  over  the  re- 
mains. In  all  such  cases  he  had  performed  the  funeral 
service  a  second  time,  and  the  ladies  of  his  house  had 
attended.  There  had  been  no  offence  in  the  poor  ashee 
when  they  were  brought  again  to  the  light  of  day  ;  the 
beneficent  earth  had  already  absorbed  it.  The  drowTied 
were  buried  in  their  clothes.  To  supply  the  great  sud- 
den demand  for  coffins,  he  had  got  all  the  neighbouring 
people  handy  at  tools  to  work  the  livelong  day,  and  Sun- 
day likewise.  The  coffins  were  neatly  formed  ; — I  had 
seen  two,  waiting  for  occupants,  under  the  lee  of  the 


304 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


ruined  walls  of  a  stone  hut  on  the  beach,  within  call  of 
the  tent  where  the  Christmas  Feast  was  held.  Simi- 
larly, one  of  the  graves  for  four  was  lying  open  and 
ready  here  in  the  churchyard.  So  much  of  the  scanty 
space  was  already  devoted  to  the  wrecked  people,  that 
the  villagers  had  begun  to  express  uneasy  doubts 
whether  they  themselves  could  lie  in  their  own  ground, 
with  their  forefathers  and  descendants,  by  and  by.  The 
churchyard  being  but  a  step  from  the  clergyman's  dwell- 
ing-house, we  crossed  to  the  latter.  The  white  surplice 
was  hanging  up  near  the  door,  ready  to  be  put  on  at  any 
time  for  a  funeral  service. 

The  cheerful  earnestness  of  this  good  Christian  min- 
ister was  as  consolatory  as  the  circumstances  out  of 
which  it  shone  were  sad.  I  never  have  seen  anything 
more  delightfully  genuine  than  the  calm  dismissal  by 
himself  and  his  household  of  all  they  had  undergone,  as 
a  simple  duty  that  was  quietly  done  and  ended.  In 
speaking  of  it,  they  spoke  of  it  with  great  compassion 
for  the  bereaved  ;  but  laid  no  stress  upon  their  own 
hard  share  in  those  weary  weeks,  except  as  it  had  at- 
tached many  people  to  them  as  friends,  and  elicited 
many  touching  expressions  of  gratitude.  This  clergy- 
man's brother, — himself  the  clergyman  of  two  adjoin- 
ing parishes,  who  had  buried  thirty-four  of  the  bodies 
in  his  own  churchyard,  and  who  had  done  to  them  all 
that  his  brother  had  done  as  to  the  larger  number, — 
must  be  understood  as  included  in  the  family.  He  was 
there  with  his  neatly  arranged  papers,  and  made  no 
more  account  of  his  trouble  than  anybody  else  did. 
Down  to  yesterday's  post  outward  my  clergyman  alone 
had  written  one  thousand  and  seventy-five  letters  to  rel- 
atives and  friends  of  the  lost  people.  In  the  absence  of 
self-assertion,  it  was  only  through  my  now  and  then  del- 
icately putting  a  question  as  the  occasion  arose,  that  I 
became  informed  of  these  things.  It  was  only  when  I 
had  remarked  again  and  again,  in  the  church,  on  the 
awful  nature  of  the  scene  of  death  he  had  been  re- 
quired so  closely  to  familiarize  himself  with  for  the 
soothing  of  the  living,  that  he  had  casually  said,  with- 
out the  least  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness,  indeed, 
it  had  rendered  him  unable  for  a  time  to  eat  or  drink 
more  than  a  little  coffee  now  and  then,  and  a  piece  of 
bread.'' 

In  this  noble  modesty,  in  this  beautiful  simplicity,  in 
this  serene  avoidance  of  the  least  attempt  to  improve  " 
an  occasion  which  might  be  supposed  to  have  sunk  of  its 
0v/n  weight  into  my  heart,  I  seem  to  have  happily  come, 
in  a  few  steps,  from  the  churchyard  with  its  open  grave, 
which  was  the»  type  of  Death,  to  the  Christian  dvv(^lling 


THE  UNCOMMEKCIAI.  TKAVFJ.LKR.  'My 


side  by  side  with  it,  wliich  was  tHe  type  of  Resurrection. 
I  never  shall  think  of  the  former  without  the  latter.  Thr 
two  will  always  rest  side  by  side  in  my  memory.  If  I 
had  lost  any  one  dear  to  me  in  this  unfortunate  ship, — if 
1  had  made  a  voyage  from  Australia  to  look  at  the  grave 
in  the  churchyard, — I  should  go  away,  thankful  to  GOD 
that  that  house  was  so  close  to  it,  and  that  its  shadow  by 
day  and  its  domestic  lights  by  night  fell  upon  the  earth 
in  which  its  master  had  so  tenderly  laid  my  dear  one's 
iiead. 

The  references  that  naturally  arose  out  of  our  conver- 
sation to  the  descriptions  sent  down  of  shipwrecked  per- 
sons, and  to  the  gratitude  of  relations  and  friends,  made 
me  very  anxious  to  see  some  of  those  letters.  I  was 
presently  ideated  before  a  shipwreck  of  papers,  all  bor- 
dered with  black,  and  from  them  I  made  the  following 
few  extracts. 

A  mother  writes  : — 

Reverend  Sik  : — Amongst  the  many  who  perished  on 
your  shore  was  numbered  my  beloved  son.  I  was  only 
just  recovering  from  a  severe  illness,  and  this  fearful  af- 
fliction has  caused  a  relapse,  so  that  I  am  unable  at 
present  to  go  to  identify  the  remains  of  the  loved  and 
lost.  My  darling  son  would  have  been  sixteen  on  Christ- 
mas day  next.  He  was  a  most  amiable  and  obedient 
child,  early  taught  the  way  of  salvation.  We  fondly 
hoped  that  as  a  British  seaman  he  might  bean  ornament  » 
to  his  profession,  but,  ''it  is  well  "  ;  I  feel  assured  my 
dear  boy  is  now  with  the  redeemed.  O,  he  did  not  wish 
to  go  this  last  voyage  !  On  the  fifteenth  of  October  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  him  from  Melbourne,  date  August 
twelfth  ;  he  wrote  in  high  spirits,  and  in  conclusion  he 
says  :  Pray  for  a  fair  breeze,  dear  mamma,  and  Fllnot 
forget  to  whistle  for  it  !  and,  God  permitting,  I  shall  see 
you  and  all  my  little  pets  again.  Good  by,  dear  mother, 
— good  by,  dearest  parents.  Good  by,  dear  brother." 
O,  it  was  indeed  an  eternal  farewell.  I  do  not  apologize 
for  thus  writing  you,  for  O,  my  heart  is  so  very  sorrow 
ful  ! 

A  husband  writes  : — 

My  dear  kind  Sir  : — Will  you  kindly  inform  me 
whether  there  are  any  initials  upon  the  ring  and  guard 
you  have  in  possession,  found,  as  the  Standard says, 
last  Tuesday  ?  Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,  when  I  say  that 
I  cannot  express  my  deep  gratitude  in  words  sufficiently 
for  your  kindness  to  me  on  that  fearful  and  appalling  day. 
Will  you  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you,  and  will  you 
wjite  nie  a  consoling  letter  to  prevent  my  mind  from  go- 
ing astray? 


306  WORES  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


A  widow  writes  : —  * 

Left  in  sucli  a  state  as  I  am,  my  friends  and  I  thought 
it  best  that  my  dear  husband  should  be  buried  where  he 
lies,  and,  much  as  I  should  have  liked  to  have  had  it 
otherwise,  I  must  submit.  I  feel,  from  all  I  have  heard 
of  you,  that  you  will  see  it  done  decently  and  in  order. 
Little  does  it  signify  to  us,  when  the  soul  has  departed, 
where  this  poor  body  lies  ;  but  we  who  are  left  behind 
would  do  all  we  can  to  show  how  we  Icved  them.  This 
is  denied  me  ;  but  it  is  God's  hand  that  afflicts  us,  and  I 
try  to  submit.  Some  day  I  may  be  able  to  visit  the  spot, 
and  see  where  he  lies,  and  erect  a  simple  stone  to  his 
memory.  0,  it  will  be  long,  long  before  I  forget  that 
dreadful  night  !  Is  there  such  a  thing  in  the  vicinity, 
or  any  shop  in  Bangor,  to  which  I  could  send  for  a  small 
picture  of  Moelfra  or  Llanallgo  church,  a  spot  now 
sacred  to  me  ? 

Another  widow  writes  : — 

I  have  received  your  letter  this  morning,  and  do  thank 
you  most  kindly  for  the  interest  you  have  taken  about 
my  dear  husband,  as  well  as  for  the  sentiments  yours 
contains,  evincing  the  spirit  of  a  Christian  who  can 
sympathize  with  those  who,  like  myself,  are  broken 
down  with  grief. 

May  God  bless  and  sustain  you,  and  all  in  connection 
with  you,  in  this  great  trial !  Time  may  roll  on  and 
bear  all  its  sons  away,  but  your  name  as  a  disinterested 
person  will  stand  in  history,  and,  as  successive  years 
pass,  many  a  widow  will  think  of  your  noble  conduct, 
and  the  tears  of  gratitude  flow  down  many  a  cheek,  the 
tribute  of  a  thankful  heart,  when  other  things  are  for- 
gotten forever. 

A  father  writes  : 

I  am  at  a  loss  to  find  words  to  sufficiently  express  my 
gratitude  to  you  for  your  kindness  to  my  son  Richard 
upon  the  melancholy  occasion  of  his  visit  to  his  dear 
brother's  body,  and  also  for  your  ready  attention  in  pro- 
nouncing our  beautiful  burial-service  over  my  poor  un- 
fortunate son's  remains.  God  grant  that  your  prayers 
over  him  may  reach  the  Mercy  Seat,  and  that  his  soul 
may  be  received  (through  Christ's  intercession)  into 
heaven  1 

His  dear  mother  begs  me  to  convey  to  you  her  heart- 
felt thanks. 

Those  who  were  received  at  the  clergyman's  house 
wrote  thus  after  leaving  it  : — 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  307 


Dear  and  never-to-be-forgotten  Friends  :  —  1 
arrived  here  yesterday  morning  without  accident,  and 
am  about  to  proceed  to  my  home  by  railway. 

I  am  overpowered  when  I  think  of  you  and  your  hos- 
pitable home.  No  words  could  speak  language  suited 
to  my  heart.  I  refrain.  God  reward  you  with  the  same 
measure  you  have  meted  with  I 

I  enumerate  no  names,  but  embrace  you  all. 

My  beloved  Friends  :  —  This  is  the  first  day  that  I 
have  been  able  to  leave  my  bedroom  since  I  returned, 
which  will  explain  the  reason  of  my  not  writing  sooner. 

If  I  could  only  have  had  my  last  melancholy  hope  rea- 
lized in  recovering  the  body  of  my  beloved  and  lamented 
son,  I  should  have  returned  home  somewhat  comforted, 
and  I  think  I  could  then  have  been  comparatively  re- 
signed. 

I  fear  now  there  is  but  little  prospect,  and  I  mourn  as 
one  without  hope. 

The  only  consolation  to  my  distressed  mind  is  in  hav- 
ing been  so  feelingly  allowed  by  you  to  leave  the  matter 
in  your  hands,  by  whom  I  well  know  that  everything 
will  be  done  that  can  be,  according  to  arrangements 
made  before  I  left  the  scene  of  the  awful  catastrophe, 
both  as  to  the  identification  of  my  dear  son,  and  also 
his  interment. 

I  feel  most  anxious  to  hear  whether  anything  fresh  has 
transpired  since  I  left  you  ;  will  you  add  another  to  the 
many  deep  obligations  I  am  under  to  you  by  w^riting  to 
me  ?  And,  should  the  body  of  my  dear  and  unfortunate 
son  be  identified,  let  me  hear  from  you  immediately,  and 
I  will  come  again. 

Words  cannot  express  the  gratitude  I  feel  I  owe  to  you 
all  for  your  benevolent  aid,  your  kindness,  and  your 
sympathy. 

My  dearly  beloved  Friends  : — I  arrived  in  safety 
at  my  house  yesterday,  and  a  night's  rest  has  restored 
and  tranquillized  me.  I  must  again  repeat,  that  lan- 
guage has  no  words  by  which  I  can  express  my  sense  of 
obligation  to  you.  You  are  enshrined  in  my  heart  of 
hearts. 

I  have  seen  him  !  and  can  now  realize  my  misfortune 
.  more  than  I  have  hitherto  been  able  to  do.    O,  the  bit- 
terness of  the  cup  I  drink  !    But  I  bow  submissive.  God 
must  have  done  right.    I  do  not  want  to  feel  less,  but  to 
acquiesce  more  simply. 

There  were  some  Jewish  passengers  on  board  the 
*'  Royal  Charter,''  and  the  gratitude  of  the  Jewish  people 
is  feelingly  expressed  in  the  following:  letter,  bearing 
date  from  "  the  office  of  the  Chief  Rabbi": — 


808 


WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


Reverend  Sir  :  —  I  cannot  refrain  from  expressing 
to  you  my  heartfelt  thanks  on  behalf  of  those  of  my  flock 
whose  relatives  have  unfortunately  been  among  those 
who  perished  at  the  late  wreck  of  the  "  Royal  Charter." 
You  have  indeed,  like  Boaz,  not  left  off  your  kindness 
to  the  living,  and  the  dead." 

You  have  not  alone  acted  kindly  towards  the  living  by 
receiving  them  hospitably  at  your  house,  and  energeti- 
cally assisting  them  in  their  mournful  duty,  but  also  to- 
wards the  dead  by  exerting  yourself  to  have  our  cov 
religionists  liuried  in  our  ground,  and  according  to  our 
rites.  May  our  heavenly  Father  reward  you  for  your 
acts  of  humanity  and  true  philanthropy  I 

The  Old  Hebrew  Congregation  of  Liverpool "  thus 
express  themselves  through  their  secretary  :  — 

Reverend  Sir: — The  wardens  of  this  congregation 
have  learned  w^ith  great  pleasure  that,  in  addition  to 
those  indefatigable  exertions,  at  the  scene  of  the  late 
disaster  to  the  Royal  Charter,''  which  have  received 
universal  recognition,  you  have  very  benevolently  em- 
ployed your  valuable  efforts  to  assist  such  members  of 
our  faith  as  have  sought  the  bodies  of  lost  friends  to 
give  them  burial  in  our  consecrated  grounds,  with  the 
observances  and  rites  prescribed  by  the  ordinances  of 
our  religion. 

The  wardens  desire  me  to  take  the  earliest  available 
opportunity  to  offer  to  you,  on  behalf  of  our  community, 
the  expression  of  their  warm  acknowledgments  and 
grateful  thanks,  and  their  sincere  wishes  for  your  con- 
tinued welfare  and  prosperity. 

A  Jewish  gentleman  writes  : — 

Reverend  and  dear  Sir: — I  take  the  opportunity  of 
thanking  you  right  earnestly  for  the  promptness  you  dis- 
played in  answering  my  note  with  full  particulars  con- 
cerning my  much- lamented  brother,  and  I  also  herein 
beg  to  express  my  sincere  regard  for  the  willingness  you 
displayed,  and  for  the  facility  you  afforded  for  getting 
the  remains  of  my  poor  brother  exhumed.  It  has  been 
to  us  a  most  sorrowful  and  painful  event,  but  when  we 
meet  with  such  friends  as  yourself,  it  in  a  measure^ 
somehow  or  other,  abates  that  mental  anguish,  and 
makes  the  suffering  so  much  easier  to  be  borne.  Con- 
sidering the  circumstances  connected  with  my  poor 
brother's  fate,  it  does,  indeed,  appear  a  hard  one.  He 
had  been  away  in  all  seven  years  ;  he  returned  four  years 
ago  to  see  his  family.  He  was  then  engaged  to  a  very 
amiable  young  lady.  He  had  been  very  successful 
abroad,  and  was  now  returning  to  fulfil  his  sacred  vowij 


THE  UNCOMMEItClAL  TKAVELLER. 


809 


he  brought  all  his  proporty^with  him  in  gold  uninsured. 
We  heard  from  him  when  the  ship  stopped  at  Queens- 
town,  when  he  was  in  the  highest  of  hope,  and  in  a  few 
short  hours  afterwards  all  was  washed  away. 

Mournful  in  the  deepest  degree,  but  too  sacred  for 
quotation  here,  were  the  numerous  references  to  those 
miniatures  of  women  worn  round  the  necks  of  rough 
men  (and  found  there  after  death),  those  locks  of  hair, 
those  scraps  of  letters,  those  many,  many  slight  memo- 
rials of  hidden  tenderness.  One  man  cast  up  by  the  sea 
bore  about  him,  printed  on  a  perforated  lace  card,  the 
following  singular  (and  unavailing)  charm  : — 

A  BLESSING. 

May  the  blessing  of  God  await  thee.  May  the  sun  of 
glory  shine  around  thy  bed  ;  and  may  the  gates  of  plenty, 
honour,  and  happiness  be  ever  open  to  thee.  May  no  sor- 
row distress  thy  days  ;  may  no  grief  disturb  thy  nights. 
May  the  pillow  of  peace  kiss  thy  cheek,  and  the  pleas- 
ures of  imagination  attend  thy  dreams  ;  and  when  length 
of  years  makes  thee  tired  of  earthly  joys,  and  the  cur- 
tain of  death  gently  closes  around  thy  last  sleep  of  hu- 
man existence,  may  the  Angel  of  God  attend  thy  bed, 
and  take  care  that  the  expiring  lamp  of  life  shall  not  re- 
ceive one  rude  blast  to  hasten  on  its  extinction. 

A  sailor  had  these  devices  on  his  right  arm.  ''Our 
Saviour  on  the  Cross,  the  forehead  of  the  Crucifix  and 
the  vesture  stained  red  ;  on  the  lower  part  of  the  arm,  a 
man  and  woman  ;  on  one  side  of  the  Cross,  the  appear- 
ance of  a  half-moon,  with  a  face  ;  on  the  other  side,  the 
sun  ;  on  the  top  of  the  Cross,  the  letters  I.  H.  S.;  on  the 
left  arm,  a  man  and  woman  dancing,  with  an  effort  to  de- 
lineate the  female's  dress  ;  under  which,  initials."  An- 
other seaman  had,  on  the  lower  part  of  the  right  arm, 
the  device  of  a  sailor  and  female  ;  the  man  holding  the 
Union  Jack  with  a  streamer,  the  folds  of  which  waved 
over  her  head,  and  the  end  of  it  was  held  in  her  hand. 
On  the  upper  part  of  the  arm,  a  device  of  Our  Lord  on 
the  Cross,  with  stars  surrounding  the  head  of  the  Cross, 
and  one  large  star  on  the  side  in  Indian  ink.  On  the 
left  arm,  a  flag,  a  true  lover's  knot,  a  face,  and  initials." 
This  tattooing  was  found  still  plain,  below  the  discoloured 
outer  surface  of  a  mutilated  arm,  when  such  surface  was 
carefully  scraped  away  with  a  knife.  It  is  not  improb- 
able that  the  perpetuation  of  this  marking  custom  among 
seamen  may  be  referred  back  to  their  desire  to  be  iden- 
tified, if  drowned  and  flung  ashore. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  could  se'^^er  myself  from  the 


310 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


many  interesting  papers  on  the  table ;  and  then  I  broke 
bread  and  drank  wine  with  the  kind  family  before  I  left 
them.  As  I  brought  the  Coast  Guard  down,  so  I  took 
the  Postman  back,  with  his  leathern  wallet,  walking- 
stick,  bugle,  and  terrier  dog.  Many  a  heart-broken  let 
ter  had  he  brought  to  the  Rectory  House  within  two 
months  ;  many  a  benignantly  painstaking  answer  had  he 
carried  back. 

As  I  rode  along  I  thought  of  the  many  people,  inhab 
itants  of  this  mother  country,  who  would  make  pilgrim- 
ages to  the  little  churchyard  in  the  years  to  come  ;  I 
thought  of  the  many  people  in  Australia  who  would  have 
an  interest  in  such  a  shipwreck,  and  would  find  their 
way  here  when  they  visit  the  Old  World  ;  I  thought  of 
the  writers  of  all  the  wreck  of  letters  I  had  left  upon  the 
table  ;  and  I  resolved  to  place  this  little  record  where  it 
stands.  Convocations,  Conferences,  Diocesan  Epistles, 
and  the  like,  will  do  a  great  deal  for  Religion,  I  dare 
say,  and  Heaven  send  they  may  !  but  I  doubt  if  they  will 
ever  do  their  Master's  service  half  so  well,  in  all  the 
time  they  last,  as  the  Heavens  have  seen  it  done  in  this 
bleak  spot  upon  the  rugged  coast  of  Wales. 

Had  I  lost  the  friend  of  my  life  in  the  wreck  of  the 
"Royal  Charter"  ;  had  I  lost  my  betrothed,  the  more 
than  friend  of  my  life  ;  had  I  lost  my  maiden  daughter, 
had  I  lost  my  hopeful  boy,  had  I  lost  my  little  child, — I 
would  kiss  the  hands  that  worked  so  busily  and  gently 
in  the  church,  and  say,  None  better  could  have  touched 
the  form,  though  it  had  lain  at  home."  I  could  be  sure 
of  it ;  I  could  be  thankful  for  it ;  I  could  be  content  to 
leave  the  grave  near  the  house  the  good  family  pass  in 
and  out  of  every  day,  undisturbed,  in  the  little  church- 
yard where  so  many  are  so  strangely  brought  together. 

Without  the  name  of  the  clergyman  to  whom — I  hope 
not  without  carrying  comfort  to  some  heart  at  some  time 
— I  have  referred,  my  reference  would  be  as  nothing. 
He  is  the  Reverend  Stephen  Roose  Hughes,  of  Llanallgo, 
near  Moelfra,  Anglesey.  His  brother  is  the  Reverend 
Hugh  Robert  Hughes,  of  Penrhos  Alligwy. 


IIL 

Wapping  Workhouse, 

My  day's  no-business  beckoning  me  to  the  East  End  ot 
London,  I  had  turned  my  face  to  that  point  of  the  metro- 
politan compass  on  leaving  Covent  Garden,  and  had  got 
past  the  India  House,  thmking  in  my  idle  manner  of 
Tippoo  Sahib  and  Charles  Lamb,  and  had  got  past  my 
little  wooden  midshipman,  after  affectionately  patting 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLEU.  311 


him  on  one  leg  of  his  knee-shorts  for  old  acquaintance 
sake,  and  had  got  past  Aldgate  Pump,  and  had  got  past 
the  Saracen's  Head  (with  an  ignominious  rash  of  posting- 
bills  disfiguring  his  swarthy  countenance),  and  had 
strolled  up  the  empty  yard  of  his  ancient  neighbour  the 
Black  or  Blue  Boar,  or  bull,  who  departed  this  life  I 
don't  when,  and  whose  coaches  are  all  gone  I  don't  know 
where  ;  and  I  had  come  out  again  into  the  age  of  rail- 
ways, and  I  had  got  past  Whitechapel  Church,  and  was 
— rather  inappropriately  for  an  Uncommercial  Traveller — 
in  the  Commercial  Road.  Pleasantly  wallowing  in  the 
abundant  mud  of  that  thoroughfare,  and  greatly  enjoying 
the  huge  piles  of  building  belonging  to  the  sugar  refin- 
ers, the  little  masts  and  vanes  in  small  back  gardens  in 
back  streets,  the  neighbouring  canals  and  docks,  the 
India- vans  lumbering  along  their  stone  tramway,  and  the 
pawnbrokers'  shops  where  hard-up  Mates  had  pawned  so 
many  sextants  and  quadrants  that  I  should  have  bought 
a  few  cheap  if  I  had  the  least  notion  how  to  use  them,  I 
at  last  began  to  file  off  to  the  right  towards  Wapping. 

Not  that  I  intended  to  take  boat  at  Wapping  Old 
Stairs,  or  that  I  was  going  to  look  at  the  locality  because 
I  believe  (for  I  don't)  in  the  constancy  of  the  young  wom- 
an who  told  her  seagoing  lover,  to  such  a  beautiful  old 
tune,  that  she  had  ever  continued  the  same,  since  she 
gave  him  the  'baccer-box  marked  with  his  name.  I  am 
afraid  he  usually  got  the  worst  of  those  transactions,  and 
was  frightfully  taken  in.  No,  I  was  going  to  Wapping, 
because  an  Eastern  police  magistrate  had  said,  through 
the  morning  papers,  that  there  was  no  classification  at 
the  Wapping  workhouse  for  women,  and  that  it  was  a 
disgrace  and  a  shame,  and  divers  other  hard  names,  and 
because  I  wished  to  see  how^the  fact  really  stood.  For 
that  Eastern  police  magistrates  are  not  always  the  wisest 
men  of  the  East  may  be  inferred  from  their  course  of 
procedure  respecting  the  fancy-dressing  and  pantomime- 
posturing  at  St.  George's  in  that  quarter ;  which  is  usu- 
ally to  discuss  the  matter  at  issue,  in  a  state  of  mind  be- 
tokening the  weakest  perplexity,  with  all  parties  con- 
cerned and  unconcerned,  and,  for  a  final  expedient,  to 
consult  the  complainant  as  to  what  he  thinks  ought  to 
be  done  with  the  defendant,  and  take  the  defendant's 
opinion  as  to  what  he  would  recommend  to  be  done  with 
himself. 

Long  before  I  reached  Wapping  I  gave  myself  up  as 
having  lost  my  way,  and,  abandoning  myself  to  the 
narrow  streets  in  a  Turkish  frame  of  mind,  relied  on  pre- 
destination to  bring  me  somehow  or  other  to  the  place  I 
wanted,  if  1  were  ever  to  get  there.  When  I  had  ceased 
for  an  hour  or  so  to  take  any  trouble  about  the  matter,  I 
found  myself  on  a  swing-bridge,  looking  down  at  some 


;il2  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKKxNS. 

dark  locks  in  some  dirty  water.  Over  against  me  stood 
a  creature  remotely  in  the  likeness  of  a  young  man,  with 
a  puffed  sallow  face,  and  a  figure  all  dirty  and  shiny 
and  slimy,  who  may  have  been  the  youngest  son  of 
his  filthy  old  father,  Thames,  or  the  drowned  man 
about  whom  there  was  a  placard  on  the  granite  post, 
like  a  large  thimble,  that  stood  between  us. 

I  asked  this  apparition  what  it  called  the  place.  Unto 
which  it  replied,  with  a  ghastly  grin,  and  a  sound  like 
gurgling  water  in  its  throat  : — 
Mr.  Baker's  trap." 

As  it  is  a  point  of  great  sensitiveness  with  me  on  such 
occasions  to  be  equal  to  the  intellectual  pressure  of  the 
conversation,  I  deeply  considered  the  meaning  of  this 
speech,  while  I  eyed  the  apparition, — then  engaged  in 
hugging  and  sucking  a  horizontal  iron  bar  at  the  top  of 
the  locks.  Inspiration  suggested  to  me  that  Mr.  Baker 
was  the  acting  coroner  of  that  neighbourhood. 

*'  A  common  place  for  suicide,"  said  I,  looking  down 
at  the  locks. 

"  Sue  ?  "  returned  the  ghost,  with  a  stare.  "  Yes  !  And 
Poll.  Likewise  Emly.  And  Nancy.  And  Jane "  ;  he 
sucked  the  iron  between  each  name  ;  "and  all  the  bile- 
ing.  Ketches  off  their  bonnets  or  shorls,  takes  a  run, 
and  headers  down  here,  they  doos.  Always  a  headerin' 
down  here,  they  is.    Like  one  o'clock." 

And  at  about  that  hour  of  the  morning,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Ah  !"  said  the  apparition.  They  ain't  partickler. 
Two  'ull  do  for  tJiem.  Three.  AW  times  o'  night.  O'ny 
mind  you  ! "  Here  the  apparition  rested  his  profile  on 
the  bar,  and  gurgled  in  a  sarcastic  manner.  "  There 
must  be  somebody  comin'.  They  don't  go  a  headerin' 
down  here  wen  there  ain't  no  Bobby  nor  general  Cove  fur 
to  hear  the  splash." 

According  to  my  interpretation  of  these  words,  I  was 
myself  a  General  Cove,  or  member  of  the  miscellaneous 
public.    In  which  modest  character  I  remarked  : — 

"  They  are  often  taken  out,  are  they,  and  restored  ?  '* 

"  I  dunno  about  restored,"  said  the  apparition,  who, 
for  some  occult  reason,  very  much  objected  to  that  word  i 
' '  they're  carried  into  the  werkiss,  and  put  into  a  'ot  bath, 
and  brought  round.  But  I  dunno  about  restored,"  said 
the  apparition  ;  "  blow  that!  " — and  vanished. 

As  it  had  shown  a  desire  to  become  offensive,  I  was 
not  sorry  to  find  myself  alone,  especially  as  the  "  wer- 
kiss" it  had  indicated  with  a  twist  of  its  matted  head 
was  close  at  hand.  So  I  left  Mr.  Baker's  tertible  trap 
(baited  with  a  scum  that  was  like  the  soapy  rinsing  of 
sooty  chimneys),  and  made  bold  to  ring  at  the  workhouse 
^ate,  where  I  was  wholly  unexpected  and  quite  unknown. 

A  very  bright  and  nimble  little  matron,  with  a  bunch 


THE  IJISI COMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


313 


of  keys  in  her  hand,  responded  to  my  request  to  see  Uk^ 
House.  I  began  to  doubt  whethar  the  police  raagistrate 
was  quite  right  in  his  facts  wLen  I  noticed  her  quick, 
active  little  figure  and  her  intelligent  eyes. 

The  Traveller  (the  matron  intimated)  should  see  the 
worst  first.  He  was  welcome  to  see  everything.  BwcAi 
as  it  was,  there  it  all  was. 

This  was  the  only  preparation  for  our  entering  the 
Foul  wards.''  They  were  in  an  ola  building  squeezed 
away  in  a  corner  of  a  paved  yard,  ;  ito  detached  from 
the  more  modern  and  spacious  main  body  of  the  work- 
house. They  were  ii  a  building  mosfc  monstrously  be- 
hind the  time,— a  mere  series  of  garrot::  or  lofts,  with 
every  inconvenient  and  object!  jnable  circumstance  in 
their  construction,  and  or-y  accessible  by  steep  and 
narrow  staircases,  infamously  ill  adapted  for  the  passage 
upstairs  of  the  sick,  or  down-stairs  of  the  dead. 

Abed  in  these  misera  Je  rooms,  here  on  bedsteads, 
there  (for  a  change,  as  I  understood  it)  on  the  floor,  were 
women  in  every  stage  of  distress  and  disease.  None 
but  those  who  have  attentively  observed  such  scenes  can 
conceive  the  extraordinary  variety  of  expression  still 
latent  under  the  general  monotony  and  uniformity  of 
colour,  attitude,  and  condition.  The  form  a  little  coiled 
up  and  turned  away  as  though  it  had  turned  its  back  on 
this  world  forever  ;  the  uninterested  face,  at  once  lead- 
coloured  and  yellow,  looking  passively  upward  from  the 
pillow  ;  and  haggard  mouth  a  little  dropped  ;  the  hand 
outside  the  coverle  so  dull  and  indifferent,  so  light,  and 
yet  so  heavy, — these  were  on  every  pallet  ;  but  when  I 
stopped  beside  a  bod,  and  said  ever  so  slight  a  word  to 
the  figure  lying  ther  the  ghost  of  the  old  character  came 
into  the  face,  and  mado  the  Foul  ward  as  various  as  the 
fair  world.  No  one  appeared  to  care  to  live,  but  no  one 
complained  ;  all  who  coTild  speak  said  that  as  much  was 
done  for  them  as  could  be  done  there, — that  the  attend- 
ance was  kind  and  patient, — that  their  suffering  was 
very  heavy,  but  tbey  had  nothing  to  ask  for.  The 
wretched  rooms  were  as  clean  and  sweet  as  it  is  possiUe 
for  such  rooms  to  be  ;  they  would  become  a  pest-house 
in  a  single  week,  if  they  were  ill  kept. 

I  accompanied  the  brisk  ma:  ro  i  u;^^  another  barbarous 
staircase,  into  a  better  kind  of  I .  ft  devoted  to  the  idiotic 
and  imbecile.  There  was  a  least  '  ght  in  it,  whereas 
the  windows  in  the  former  wards  ha  .  beon  like  sides  of 
school-boys'  birdcages.  here  was  a  strong  grating  over 
the  fire  here,  and,  holding  a  kind  f  state  on  either  side 
of  the  hearth,  separated  by  the  breadth  of  this  grating, 
were  two  old  ladies  in  a  condition  of  feeble  dignity  which 
was  surely  the  very  last  and  lowest  reduction  of  self- 
complacency  to  be  found  in  this  wonderful  humanity  of 


814  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ours.  They  were  evidently  jealous  of  each  other,  and 
passed  their  whole  time  (as  some  people  do,  whose  fires 
are  not  grated)  in  mentally  disparaging  each  other,  and 
contempt uoasly  watching  their  neighbours.  One  of 
these  parodies  on  p  vincial  gentlewomen  was  extremely 
talkative,  and  expr  ssed  a  strong  desire  to  attend  the 
service  on  Sundays,  from  which  slio  represented  herself 
fco  have  derived  the  greatest  interest  and  consolation 
when  allowed  that  privilege.  She  gossiped  so  well,  and 
looked  altogether  so  cheery  a  i  harmless,  that  I  began 
to  think  this  a  case  for  the  Eastern  magistrate,  until  I 
found  that,  on  the  last  occasion  of  her  attending  chapel, 
she  had  secreted  a  small  stick,  and  had  caused  some  con- 
fusion in  the  responses  by  suddenly  producing  it  and 
belabouring  the  congregation. 

So  these  two  old  ladies,  separated  by  the  breadth  of 
the  grating, — otherwise  they  would  fly  at  one  another's 
caps, — sat  all  day  long,  suspecting  one  another,  and  con- 
templating a  world  of  fits.  For  everybody  else  in  the 
room  had  fits,  except  the  wards-woman,— an  elderly, 
able-bodied  pauperess,  with  a  large  upper  lip,  and  an  air 
of  repressing  and  saving  her  strength,  as  she  stood  with 
her  hands  folded  before  her,  and  her  eyes  slowly  rolling, 
biding  her  time  for  catching  or  holding  somebody.  This 
civil  personage  (in  whom  I  regretted  to  identify  a 
reduced  member  of  my  honourable  friend  Mrs.  Gamp's 
family)  said,  '*They  has  'em  continiwal,  sir.  They 
drops  without  no  more  notice  than  if  they  was  coach- 
horses  dropped  from  the  moon,  sir.  And  when  one 
drops,  another  drops,  and  sometimes  there'll  be  as  many 
^  four  or  five  on  'em  at  once,  dear  me,  a  rollin'  and  a 
tearin',  bless  you  ! — this  young  woman,  now,  has  em 
dreadful  bad." 

She  turned  up  this  young  woman's  face  with  her  hand 
as  she  said  it.  This  young  woman  was  seated  on  the 
floor,  pondering,  in  the  foreground  of  the  afflicted.  There 
was  nothing  repelLnt,  either  in  her  face  or  head.  Many 
apparently  worse  varieties  of  epilepsy  and  hysteria  were 
abo  t  her,  but  she  was  said  to  be  the  worst  there.  Whea 
I  had  spoken  to  her  a  little,  she  still  sat  with  her  face 
turnc  1  up,  pondering,  and  a  gleam  of  the  midday  sun 
shone  in  upon  her. 

— Whether  this  young  woman  and  the  rest  of  these  so 
sorely  tro^ibled,  as  they  sit  or  lie  pondering  in  their  con- 
fused, dull  way,  ever  get  mental  glimpses,  among  the 
notes  in  the  sunlight,  of  healthy  people  and  heaHhy 
things  ?  Whether  this  young  woman  brooding  like  this 
in  the  summer  season,  ever  thinks  that  somewhere  there 
are  trees  and  flowers,  even  mountains  and  the  great  sea? 
Whether,  not  to  go  so  far,  this  young  woman  ever  has 
any  dim  rev    ^tion  of  that  young  woman, — that  youn^ 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  315 


woman  who  is  not  here  and  never  will  come  here, — who 
is  courted,  and  caressed,  and  loved,  and  has  a  husband, 
and  bears  children,  and  lives  in  a  home,  and  who  never 
knows  what  it  is  to  have  this  lashing  and  tearing  coming 
upon  her?  And  whether  this  young  woman,  God  help 
her  !  gives  herself  up  then,  and  drops  like  a  coach- horse 
from  the  moon  ? 

I  hardly  knew  whether  the  voices  of  infant  children, 
penetrating  into  so  hopeless  a  place,  made  a  sound  that 
was  pleasant  or  painful  to  me.  It  was  something  to  be 
reminded  that  the  weary  world  was  not  all  aweary,  and 
was  ever  renewing  itself  ;  but  this  young  woman  was  a 
child  not  long  ago,  and  a  child  not  long  hence  might  be 
such  as  she.  ',  the  active  step  and  eye  of  the 

vigilant  ma  ^n  conducted  me  past  the  two  provincial 
gentlewomen  (whose  dignity  was  ruffled  by  the  children), 
and  into  the  adjacent  nursery. 

There  were  many  babies  here,  and  more  than  one  hand- 
some young  mother.  There  were  ugly  young  mothers 
also,  and  sullen  young  mothers,  and  callous  young  moth- 
ers. But  the  babies  had  not  appropriated  to  themselvea 
any  bad  expression  yet,  and  might  have  been,  for  any- 
thing that  appeared  to  the  contrary  in  their  soft  faces. 
Princes  Imperial  and  Princesses  Royal.  I  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  giving  a  poetical  commission  to  the  baker's  man 
to  make  a  cake  with  all  dispatch  and  toss  it  into  the  oven 
for  one  red-headed  young  pauper  and  myself,  and  felt 
much  the  better  for  it.  Without  that  refreshment  I  doubt 
if  I  should  have  been  in  a  condition  for  the  Refracto- 
ries," towards  whom  my  quick  little  matron — for  whose 
adaptation  to  her  office  I  had  by  this  time  conceived  a 
genuine  respect — drew  me  next,  and  marshalled  me  the 
way  that  I  was  going. 

The  Refractories  were  picking  oakum  in  a  small  room 
giving  on  a  yard.  They  sat  in  line  on  a  form,  with  their 
backs  to  a  window  ;  before  them  a  table  and  their  work. 
The  oldest  Refractory  was,  say  twenty  ;  youngest  Re- 
fractory, say  sixteen.  I  have  never  yet  ascertained,  in 
the  course  of  my  uncommercial  travels,  why  a  Refractory 
habit  should  affect  the  tonsils  and  uvula  ;  but  I  have  al- 
ways observed  that  Refractories  of  both  sexes  and  every 
grade,  betweeu  a  Ragged  School  and  the  Old  Bailey,  have 
one  voice,  in  which  the  tonsils  and  uvul  again  a  diseased 
ascendancy. 

•*  Five  pound,  indeed  !  I  hain't  a  going  fur  to  pick  five 
pound,"  said  the  chief  of  the  Refractories,  keeping  time 
to  herself  with  her  head  and  chin.  More  than  enough 
to  pick  what  we  picks  now,  in  sich  a  place  as  this,  and 
on  wot  we  gets  here." 

(This  was  in  acknowledgment  of  a  delicate  intimation 
that  the  amount  of  work  was  likely  to  be  incnaaaed.  It 


316  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


certainly  was  not  heavy  then,  for  one  Refractory  liadal 
ready  done  lier  day's  task, — it  was  barely  two  o'clock,^ — 
and  was  sitting  behind  it,  with  a  head  exactly  matching 

it.) 

A  pretty  Ouse  this  is,  matron, — ain't  it?"  said  Re- 
fractory Two,  where  a  pleeseman's  called  in  if  a  gal 
says  a  word  ! 

"  And  wen  you're  sent  to  prison  for  nothink  or  less  ! " 
said  the  Chief,  tagging  at  her  Oakum  as  if  it  were  the 
matron's  hair.       But  any  place  is  better  than  this 
that's  one  thing,  and  be  thankful  1  '* 

A  laugh  of  Refractories  led  by  Oakum  Head  with 
folded  arms, — who  originated  nothing,  but  who  was  in 
command  of  the  skirmishers  outside  the  conversation. 

If  any  place  is  better  than  this,"  said  my  brisk  guide, 
in  the  calmest  manner,  it  is  a  pity  you  left  a  good  place 
when  you  had  one." 

Ho,  no,  I  didn't,  matron,"  returned  the  Chief,  with 
another  pull  at  her  oakum,  and  a  very  expressive  look 
at  the  enemy's  forehead.  Don't  say  that,  matron,  cos 
it's  lies  ! " 

Oakum  Head  brought  up  the  skirmishers  again,  skir 
mished,  and  retired. 

**  And  /  warn't  a  going,"  exclaimed  Refractory  Two, 

though  I  was  in  one  place  for  as  long  as  four  year,—! 
warn't  a  going  fur  to  stop  in  a  place  that  warn't  fit  for  me, 
— there  I  And  where  the  family  warn't  'spectable  char 
acters, — there  !  And  where  I,  fort'nately  or  hunfort' 
nately,  found  that  the  people  warn't  what  they  pretended 
to  make  theirselves  out  to  be, — there  !  And  where  it 
wasn't  their  faults,  by  chalks,  if  I  warn't  made  bad  and 
ruinated — Hah  !  " 

During  this  speech  Oakum  Head  had  again  made  a  di 
version  with  the  skirmishers,  and  had  again  withdrawn. 

The  Uncommercial  Traveller  ventured  to  remark  that 
he  supposed  Chief  Refractory  and  Number  One  to  be  the 
two  young  women  v^^ho  had  Ijeen  taken  before  the  mag 
istrate. 

Yes  ! "  said  the  Chief,  we  har  !  and  the  wonder  is 
that  the  pleeseman  ain't  'ad  in  now,  and  we  took  oif 
agen.  You  can't  oi)en  your  lips  here  without;  a  pleese- 
man.'' 

Number  Two  laughed  (very  uvularly),  and  the  skir- 
mishers followed  suit. 

I'm  sure  I'd  be  thankful,"  protested  the  Chief,  look- 
ing sideways  a,t  the  Uncommercial,  if  I  could  be  got 
into  a  place,  or  got  abroad.  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  this 
precious  Ousc,  I  am,  with  reason." 

So  would  be  and  so  was  Number  Two.  So  would  be 
and  so  was  Oakum  Head.  So  would  be  and  so  were 
Skirmishers. 


THE  UN(JOM]\lEKUiAL  TKAVELLER.  317 


The  Uncommercial  took  the  liberty  of  hinting  that  he 
hardly  thought  it  probable  that  any  lady  or  gentleman 
hi  want  of  a  likely  young  domestic  of  retiring  manners 
would  be  tempted  into  the  engagement  of  either  of  the 
leading  Refractories,  on  her  own  presentation  of  herself 
as  per  sample. 

It  ain't  no  good  being  nothink  else  here,"  said  the 
Chief. 

The  Uncommercial  thought  it  might  be  worth  trying. 

O  no,  it  ah/t,''  said  the  Chief. 

Not  a  bit  of  good,'*  said  Number  Two. 

And  I'm  sure  I'd  be  very  thankful  to  be  got  into  a 
place,  or  got  abroad,"  said  the  Chief. 

And  so  should  I,"  said  Number  Two, -''truly 
thankful  I  should." 

Oakum  Head  then  rose,  and  announced,  as  an  entirely 
new  idea,  the  mention  of  which  profound  novelty  might 
be  naturally  expected  to  startle  her  unprepared  hearers, 
that  she  would  be  very  thankful  to  be  got  into  a  place, 
or  got  abroad.  And,  as  if  she  had  then  said,  "  Chorus, 
ladies  !  "  all  the  Skirmishers  struck  up  to  the  same  pur- 
pose. We  left  them,  thereupon,  and  began  a  long  walk 
among  the  women  who  were  simply  old  and  infirm  ;  but 
whenever,  in  the  course  of  this  same  walk,  I  looked  out 
of  any  high  window  that  commanded  the  yard,  I  saw 
Oakum  Head  and  all  the  other  Refractories  looking  out 
at  their  low  window  for  me,  and  never  failing  to  catch 
me,  the  moment  I  showed  my  head. 

In  ten  minutes  I  had  ceased  to  believe  in  such  fables 
of  a  golden  time  as  youth,  the  prime  of  life,  or  a  hale 
old  age.  In  ten  minutes  all  the  lights  of  womankind 
seemed  to  have  been  blown  out,  and  nothing  in  that  way 
to  be  left  this  vault  to  brag  of  but  the  flickering  and  ex- 
piring snuffs. 

And  what  was  very  curious  was  that  these  dim  old 
women  had  one  company  notion  which  was  the  fashion 
of  the  place.  Every  old  woman  who  became  aware  of  a 
visitor,  and  was  not  in  bed,  hobbled  over  a  form  into  her 
accustomed  seat,  and  became  one  of  a  line  of  dim  old 
women  fronting  another  line  of  dim  old  women  across  a 
narrow  table.  There  was  no  obligation  whatever  upon 
them  to  range  themselves  in  this  way  ;  it  was  their 
manner  of  ''receiving."  As  a  rule,  they  made  no  at- 
tempt  to  talk  to  one  another,  or  to  look  at  the  visitor,  or 
to  look  at  anything,  but  sat  silently  working  their 
mouths,  like  a  sort  of  poor  old  Cows.  In  some  of  these 
wards  it  was  good  to  see  a  few  green  plants  ;  in  others, 
an  isolated  Refractory  acting  as  nurse,  who  did  well 
enough  in  that  capacity,  when  separated  from  her  com- 
peers. Every  one  of  these  wards,  day-room,  night 
room,  or  both  combined,  was  scrupulously  clean  and 


818  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fresh.  I  have  seen  as  many  such  places  as  most  travel- 
lers in  my  line,  and  I  never  saw  one  much  better  kept. 

Among  the  bedridden  there  was  great  patience,  great 
reliance  on  the  books  under  the  pillow,  great  faith  in 
God.  All  cared  for  sympathy,  but  none  much  cared  to 
be  encouraged  with  hope  of  recovery ;  on  the  whole,  I 
should  say,  it  was  considered  rather  a  distinction  to 
have  a  complication  of  disorders,  and  to  be  in  a  worse 
way  than  the  rest.  From  some  of  the  windows  the 
river  could  be  seen  with  all  its  life  and  movement ;  the 
day  was  bright,  but  I  came  upon  no  one  who  was  looking 
out. 

In  one  large  ward,  sitting  by  the  fire  in  arm-chairs  of 
distinction,  like  the  President  and  Vice  of  the  good  com- 
pany, were  two  old  women  upwards  of  ninety  years  of 
age.  The  younger  of  the  two,  just  turned  ninety,  was 
deaf,  but  not  vexy,  and  could  easily  be  made  to  hear.  In 
her  early  time  she  had  nursed  a  child,  who  was  now  an- 
other old  woman,  more  infirm  than  herself,  inhabiting 
the  very  same  chamber.  She  perfectly  understood  this 
when  the  matron  told  it,  and,  with  sundry  nods  and 
motions  of  her  forefinger,  pointed  out  the  woman  in 
question.  The  elder  of  this  pair,  ninety-three,  seated 
before  an  illustrated  newspaper  (but  not  reading  it),  was 
a  bright-eyed  old  soul,  really  not  deaf,  wonderfully  pre- 
served, anji  amazingly  conversational.  She  had  not 
long  lost  her  husband,  and  had  been  in  that  place  little 
more  than  a  year.  At  Boston,  in  the  State  of  Massachu- 
setts, this  poor  creature  would  have  been  individually 
addressed,  would  have  been  tended  in  her  own  room, 
and  would  have  had  her  life  gently  assimilated  to  a 
comfortable  life  out  of  doors.  Would  that  be  much  to 
do  in  England  for  a  woman  who  has  kept  herself  out  of 
a  workhouse  more  than  ninety  rough  long  years  ?  When 
Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command,  arose  with  a  great 
deal  of  allegorical  confusion  from  out  the  azure  main, 
did  her  guardian  angels  positively  forbid  it  in  the  Char- 
ter which  has  been  so  much  besung. 

The  object  of  my  journey  was  accomplished  when  the 
nimble  matron  had  no  more  to  show  me.  As  I  shook 
hands  with  her  at  the  gate,  I  told  her  that  I  thought 
Justice  had  not  used  her  very  well,  and  that  the  wise 
men  of  the  East  were  not  infallible. 

Now  I  reasoned  with  myself,  as  I  made  my  journey 
home  again  concerning  those  Foul  wards.  They  ought 
not  to  exist :  no  person  of  common  decency  and  human- 
ity can  see  them  and  doubt  it.  But  what  is  this  Union 
to  do?  The  necessary  alteration  would  cost  several 
thousands  of  pounds  ;  it  has  already  to  support  three 
workhouses;  its  inhabitants  work  hard  for  their  bare 
lives,  and  are  already  rated  for  the  relief  of  the  Poor  to 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLER.  319 


the  utmost  extent  of  reasonable  endurance.  One  pocH- 
parish  in  this  very  Union  is  rated  to  the  amount  of  Five 
AND  SIXPENCE  in  the  pound,  at  the  very  same  time  when 
the  rich  parish  of  Saint  George's,  Hanover  Square,  is 
rated  at  about  Sevenpence  in  the  pound ;  Paddington 
at  about  Fourpence  ;  Saint  James's,  Westminster,  at 
about  Tenpence  !  It  is  only  through  the  equalization 
of  Poor  Rates  that  what  is  left  undone  in  this  wise  can 
be  done.  Much  more  is  left  undone  or  is  ill  done  than  I 
have  space  to  suggest  in  these  notes  of  a  single  uncom- 
mercial journey  ;  but  the  wise  men  of  the  East  before 
they  can  reasonaljly  hold  forth  about  it,  must  look  to  the 
North  and  South  and  West  ;  let  them  also,  any  morning 
before  taking  the  seat  of  Solomon,  look  into  the  shops 
and  dwellings  all  around  the  Temple,  and  first  ask  them- 
selves, *'How  much  more  can  these  poor  people — many 
of  whom  keep  themselves  with  difl5culty  enough  out  of 
the  workhouse — bear?" 

I  had  yet  other  matter  for  reflection,  as  I  journeyed 
home,  inasmuch  as,  before  I  altogether  departed  from 
the  neighbourhood  of  Mr.  Baker's  trap,  I  had  knocked 
at  the  gate  of  the  workhouse  of  St.  George's-in-the-East, 
and  had  found  it  to  be  an  establishment  highly  credit- 
able to  those  parts,  and  thoroughly  well  administered 
by  a  most  intelligent  master.  I  remarked  in  it  an  in- 
stance of  the  collateral  harm  that  obstinate  vanity  and 
folly  can  do.  This  was  the  Hall  where  those  old  pau- 
pers, male  and  female,  whom  I  had  just  seen,  met  for 
the  Church  service, — was  it?"  Yes." — Did  they  sing 
the  Psalms  to  any  instrument?  " — They  would  like  to 
very  much  ;  they  would  have  an  extraordinary  interest 
in  doing  so." — And  could  none  be  got?" — *'Well,  a 
piano  could  even  have  been  got  for  nothing,  but  these 
unfortunate  dissensions — " 

Ah  1  better,  far  better,  my  Christian  friend  in  the 
beautiful  garment,  to  have  let  the  singing  boys  alone, 
and  left  the  multitude  to  sing  for  themselves !  You 
should  know  better  than  I,  but  I  think  I  have  read  that 
they  did  so,  once  upon  a  time,  and  that  "  when  they  had 
sung  an  hymn,"  Some  one  (not  in  a  beautiful  garment) 
went  up  unto  the  Mount  of  Olives. 

It  made  my  heart  ache  to  think  of  this  miserable  trifling 
in  the  streets  of  a  city  where  every  stone  seemed  to  call 
to  me  as  I  walked  along,  Turn  this  way,  man,  and  see 
what  waits  to  be  done  \  So  I  decoyed  myself  into  an- 
other train  of  thought  to  ease  my  heart.  But  I  don't 
know  that  I  did  it,  for  I  was  so  full  of  paupers,  that  it 
was,  after  all,  only  a  change  to  a  single  pauper,  who 
took  possession  of  my  remembrance  instead  of  a  thou, 
sand. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  had  said,  in  a  confideu- 


320 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


dal  mannerj  on  another  occasion,  taking  me  aside  ;  bat 
I  have  seen  better  days." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  Sir,  I  have  a  complaint  to  make  against  the  master." 
I  have  no  power  here,  I  assure  you.    And  if  I  had — " 

'*  But  allow  me,  sir,  to  mention  it  as  between  yourself 
and  a  man  who  has  seen  better  days,  sir.  The  master 
and  myself  are  both  masons,  sir,  and  I  make  him  the 
si{^n  continually  ;  but  because  I  am  in  this  unfortunate 
position,  sir,  he  won't  give  me  the  countersign  1 " 


IV. 

Two  Views  of  A  Cheap  Theatre. 

As  I  shut  the  door  of  my  lodging  behind  me,  and  came 
out  into  the  streets  at  six  on  a  drizzling  Saturday 
evening  in  the  last  month  of  January,  all  that  neigh- 
bourhood of  Covent  Garden  looked  very  desolate.  It  is 
so  essentially  a  neighbourhood  which  has  seen  better 
days,  that  bad  weather  affects  it  sooner  than  another 
place  which  has  not  come  down  in  the  world.  In  its 
present  reduced  condition,  it  bears  a  thaw  almost  worse 
than  any  place  I  know.  It  gets  so  dreadfully  low- 
spirited,  when  damp  breaks  forth.  Those  wonderful 
houses  about  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  which  in  the  palmy 
days  of  theatres  were  prosperous  ai*id  long-settled  places 
of  business,  and  which  now  change  hands  every  week, 
but  never  change  their  character  of  being  divided  and 
subdivided  on  the  ground-floor  into  mouldy  dens  of 
shops,  where  an  orange  and  half  a  dozen  nuts,  or  a  pom- 
atum-pot, one  cake  of  fancy  soap,  and  a  cigar-box,  are 
offered  for  sale  and  never  sold,  were  most  ruefully  con- 
templated that  evening  by  the  statue  ef  Shakespeare, 
with  the  rain-drops  coursing  one  anothar  down  its  inno- 
cent nose.  Those  inscrutable  pigeon-hole  offices,  with 
nothing  in  them  (not  so  much  as  an  inkstand)  but  a 
model  of  a  theatre  before  the  curtain,  where,  in  the 
Italian  Opera  season,  tickets  at  reduced  prices  are  kept 
on  sale  by  nomadic  gentlemen  in  smeary  hats  too  tall  for 
them,  whom  one  occasionally  seems  to  have  seen  on 
raCe-courses,  not  wholly  unconnected  with  strips  of  cloth 
of  various  colours  and  a  rolling-ball, — those  Bedouin 
establishments,  deserted  by  the  tribe,  and  tenantless 
except  when  sheltering  in  one  corner  an  irregular  row  of 
ginger-beer  bottles  which  would  have  made  one  shudder 
on  such  a  night  but  for  its  being  plain  that  they  had 
nothing  in  them,  shrunk  from  the  slirill  cries  of  news- 
boys at  their  Exchange  in  the  kennel  of  Catherine 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  321 


Street,  like  guilty  things  upon  a  fearful  summons.  At 


pipes  were  like  theatrical  memento  mori,  admonishing 
beholders  of  the  decline  of  the  playhouse  as  an  Institu- 
tion. I  walked  up  Bow  Street,  disposed  to  be  angry 
with  the  shops  there  that  were  letting  out  theatrica- 
secrets  by  exhibiting  to  work-a-day  humanity  the  stufj 
of  which  diadems  and  robes  of  kings  are  made.  I  noticed 
that  some  shops  which  had  once  been  in  the  dramatic  line, 
and  had  struggled  out  of  it,  were  not  getting  on  pros- 
perously,— like  some  actors  I  have  known,  who  took  to 
business,  and  failed  to  make  it  answer.  In  a  word, 
those  streets  looked  so  dull,  and,  considered  as  theatrical 
streets,  so  broken  and  bankrupt,  the  Found  Dead  on  the 
black  board  at  the  police  station  might  have  announced 
the  decease  of  the  Drama,  and  the  pools  of  water  outside 
the  fire-engine  maker's  at  the  corner  of  Long  Acre  might 
have  been  occasioned  by  his  having  brought  out  the 
whole  of  his  stock  to  play  upon  its  smouldering  ashes. 

And  yet,  on  such  a  night,  in  so  degenerate  a  time,  the 
object  of  my  journey  was  theatrical.  And  yet  within 
half  an  hour  I  was  in  an  immense  theatre,  capable  of 
holding  nearly  five  thousand  people. 

What  theatre?  Ker  Majesty's?  Far  better.  Royal 
Italian  Opera?  Far  better.  Infinitely  superior  to  the 
latter  for  hearing  in  ;  infinitely  superior  to  both  for  see- 
ing in.  To  every  part  of  this  Theatre  spacious  fire-proof 
ways  of  ingress  and  egress.  For  every  part  of  it  con- 
venient places  of  refreshment,  and  retiring-rooms. 
Everything  to  eat  and  drink  carefully  supervised  as  to 
quality,  and  sold  at  an  appointed  price ;  respectable 
female  attendants  ready  for  the  commonest  women  in 
the  audience  ;  a  general  air  of  consideration,  decorum, 
and  supervision  most  commendable  ;  an  unquestionably 
humanizing  influence  in  all  the  social  arrangements  of 
the  place. 

Surely  a  dear  Theatre,  then?  Because  there  were  in 
London  (not  very  long  ago)  Theatres  with  entrance  prices 
up  to  half  a  guinea  a  head,  whose  arrangements  were 
not  half  so  civilized.  Surely,  therefore,  a  dear  Theatre! 
Not  very  dear.  A  gallery  at  threepence,  another  gallery 
at  fourpence,  a  pit  at  sixpence,  boxes  and  pit-stalls  at  a 
shilling,  and  a  few  private  boxes  at  half  a  crown. 

My  uncommercial  curiosity  induced  me  to  go  into 
every  nook  of  this  great  place,  and  among  every  class  of 
the  audience  assembled  in  it, — amounting  that  evening, 
as  I  calculated,  to  about  two  thousand  and  odd  hundreds. 
Magnificently  lighted  by  a  firmament  of  sparkling  chan- 
deliers, the  building  was  ventilated  to  perfection 
sense  of  smell,  without  being  particularly  aelicate,  has 
been  so  offended  in  some  of  the  commoner  places  of 


Street,  the  Death's-head 


KK 


Vol.  is 


822  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKEJ^S. 


public  resort,  that  I  have  often  been  obliged  to  leave 
them  when  I  have  made  an  uncommercial  journey  ex- 
pressly to  look  on.  The  air  of  this  Theatre  was  fresh, 
cool,  and  wholesome.  To  help  towards  this  end  very 
sensible  precautions  had  been  used,  ingeniously  combin- 
ing the  experience  of  hospitals  and  railway  stations. 
Asphalt  pavements  substituted  for  wooden  floors,  honest 
bare  walls  of  glazed  brick  and  tile — even  at  the  back  of 
the  boxes — for  plaster  and  paper,  no  benches  [stuffed, 
and  no  carpeting  or  baize  used  ;  a  cool  material  with  a 
light  glazed  surface  being  the  covering  of  the  seats. 

These  various  contrivances  are  as  well  considered  in 
the  place  in  question  as  if  it  were  a  Fever  Hospital  ;  the 
result  is  that  it  is  sweet  and  healthful.  It  has  been  con- 
structed from  the  ground  to  the  roof  with  a  careful 
reference  to  sight  and  sound  in  every  corner  ;  the  result 
is  that  its  form  is  beautiful,  and  that  the  appearance  of 
the  audience,  as  seen  from  the  proscenium, — with  every 
face  in  it  commanding  the  stage,  and  the  whole  so  ad- 
mirably raked  and  turned  to  that  centre,  that  a  hand  can 
scarcely  move  in  the  great  assemblage  without  the  move- 
ment being  seen  from  thence, — is  highly  remarkable  in 
its  union  of  vastness  with  compactness.  The  stage  itself, 
and  all  its  appurtenances  of  machinery,  cellarage,  height, 
and  breadth,  are  on  a  scale  more  like  the  Scala  at  Milan 
or  the  San  Carlo  at  Naples,  or  the  Grand  Opera  at  Paris, 
than  any  notion  a  stranger  would  be  likely  to  form  of 
the  Britannia  Theatre  at  Hoxton,  a  mile  north  of  St. 
Luke's  Hospital  in  the  Old  Street  Road,  London.  The 
Forty  Thieves  might  be  played  here,  and  every  thief  ride 
his  real  horse,  and  the  disguised  captain  bring  in  his  oil 
jars  on  a  train  of  real  camels,  and  nobody  be  put  out  of 
the  way.  This  really  extraordinary  place  is  the  achieve-- 
ment  of  one  man's  enterprise,  and  was  erected  on  the 
ruins  of  an  inconvenient  old  building,  in  less  than  five 
months,  at  a  round  cost  of  five-and-twenty  thousand 
pounds.  To  dismiss  this  part  of  my  subject,  and  still  to 
render  to  the  proprietor  the  credit  that  is  strictly  his 
due,  I  must  add  that  his  sense  of  the  responsibility  upon 
him  to  make  the  best  of  his  audience,  and  do  his  best 
for  them,  is  a  highly  agreeable  sign  of  these  times. 

As  the  spectators  at  this  theatre,  for  a  reason  I  will 
presently  show,  were  the  object  of  my  journey,  I  entered 
on  the  play  of  the  night  as  one  of  the  two  thousand  and 
odd  hundreds  by  iooking  about  me  at  my  neighbours. 
We  were  a  motley  assemblage  of  people,  and  we  had  a 
good  many  boys  and  young  men  among  us  ;  we  had  also 
many  girls  and  young  women.  To  represent,  however, 
tnai  -^.rp,  jiQt  include  a  very  great  number,  and  a  very 
fair  proportion  of  family  groups,  would  be  to  make  a 
gross  misstatement.    Such  groups  were  to  be  seen  in  all 


TKE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


333 


parts  of  the  house  ;  in  the  boxes  and  stalls  particularly, 
they  were  composed  of  persons  of  very  decent  appear- 
ance, who  had  many  children  with  them.  Among  our 
dresses  there  were  most  kinds  of  shabby  and  greasy  wear, 
and  much  fustian  and  corduroy  that  was  neither  sound 
nor  fragrant.  The  caps  of  our  young  men  were  mostly 
of  a  limp  character,  and  we  who  wore  them  slouched, 
high-shouldered,  into  our  places,  with  our  hands  in  our 
pockets,  and  occasionally  twisted  our  cravats  about  our 
necks  like  eels,  and  occasionally  tied  them  down  our 
breasts  like  links  of  sausages,  and  occasionally  had  a 
screw  in  our  hair  over  each  cheek-bone  with  a  slight  Thief- 
flavour  in  it.  Besides  prowlers  and  idlers,  we  were  me- 
chanics, dock-labourers,  costermongers,  petty  tradesmen, 
small  clerks,  milliners,  stay-makers,  shoe-binders,  slop- 
workers,  poor  workers  in  a  hundred  highways  and  by- 
ways. Many  of  us — on  the  whole,  the  majority — were 
not  at  all  clean,  and  not  at  all  choice  in  our  lives  or  con- 
versation. But  we  had  all  come  together  in  a  place 
where  our  convenience  was  well  consulted,  and  where 
we  were  well  looked  after,  to  enjoy  an  evening's  enter- 
tainment in  common.  We  were  not  going  to  lose  any 
part  of  what  we  had  paid  for  through  anybody's  caprice, 
and  as  a  community  we  had  a  character  to  lose.  So  we 
were  closely  attentive,  and  kept  excellent  order  ;  and  let 
the  man  or  boy  who  did  otherwise  instantly  get  out 
from  his  place,  or  we  would  put  him  out  with  the  great- 
est expedition. 

We  began  at  half  past  six  with  a  pantomime, — with  a 
pantomime  so  long,  that  before  it  was  over  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  been  travelling  for  six  weeks, — going  to  India,  say, 
by  the  Overland  Mail.  The  Spirit  of  Liberty  was  the 
principal  personage  in  the  Introduction,  and  the  Four 
Quarters  of  the  World  came  out  of  the  globe,  glittering, 
and  discoursed  with  the  Spirit,  who  sang  charmingly. 
We  were  delighted  to  understand  that  there  was  no 
Liberty  anywhere  but  among  ourselves,  and  we  highly 
applauded  the  agreeable  fact.  In  an  allegorical  way, 
which  did  as  well  as  any  other  wa}-,  we  and  the  Spirit  of 
Liberty  got  into  a  kingdom  of  Needles  and  Pins,  and 
found  them  at  war  with  a  potentate  who  called  in  to  his 
aid  their  old  arch-enemy  Rust,  and  who  would  have  got 
the  better  of  them  if  the  Spirit  of  Liberty  had  not  in  the 
nick  of  time  transformed  the  leaders  into  Clown,  Panta- 
loon, Harlequin,  Columbine,  Harlequina,  and  a  whole 
family  of  Sprites,  consisting  of  a  remarkably  stout  father 
and  three  spineless  sons.  We  all  knew  what  was  coming 
when  the  Spirit  of  Liberty  addressed  the  king  with  the 
big  face,  and  his  Majesty  backed  to  the  side- scenes  and 
began  untying  himself  behind,  with  his  big  face  all  on 
one  side.    Our  excitement  at  that  crisis  was  great,  and 


324  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


our  delight  unbounded.  After  this  era  in  our  existence, 
we  went  through  all  the  incidents  of  a  pantomime.  It 
was  not  by  any  means  a  savage  pantomime  in  the  way 
of  burning  or  boiling  people,  or  throwing  them  out  of 
window,  oi>  cutting  them  up  ;  was  often  very  droll ;  was 
always  liberally  got  up,  and  cleverly  presented.  I  no- 
ticed that  the  people  who  kept  the  shops,  and  who  rep- 
resented the  passengers  in  the  thoroughfares,  and  so 
forth,  had  no  conventionality  in  them,  but  were  unusu- 
ally like  the  real  thing, — from  which  I  infer  that  you 
may  take  that  audience  in  (if  you  wish  to)  concerning 
Knights  and  Ladies,  Fairies,  Angels,  or  such  like,  but. 
they  are  not  to  be  done  as  to  anything  in  the  streets. 
I  noticed,  also,  that  when  two  young  men,  drefsed  in 
exact  imitation  of  the  eel-and-sausage-cravatted  por- 
tion of  the  audience,  were  chased  by  policemen,  and, 
finding  themselves  in  danger  of  being  caught,  dropped 
so  suddenly  as  to  oblige  the  policeman  to  tumble  over 
them,  there  was  great  rejoicing  among  the  caps, — as 
though  it  were  a  delicate  reference  to  something  they 
had  heard  of  before. 

The  Pantomime  was  succeeded  by  a  Melodrama. 
Throughout  the  evening  I  was  pleased  to  observe  Virtue 
quite  as  triumphant  as  she  usually  is  out  of  doors,  and 
indeed  I  thought  rather  more  so.  We  all  agreed  (for 
the  time)  that  honesty  was  the  best  policy,  ^nd  we  were 
as  hard  as  iron  upon  Vice,  and  we  wouldn't  hear  of  Vil- 
lany  getting^  on  in  the  world — no,  not  on  any  considera- 
tion whatever. 

Between  the  ]jieces  we  almost  all  of  us  went  out  and 
refreshed.  Many  of  us  went  the  length  of  drinking  beer 
at  the  bar  of  the  neighbouring  public-house,  some  of 
us  drank  spirits,  crowds  of  us  had  sandwiches  and  ginger- 
beer  at  the  refreshment  bars  established  for  us  in  the 
Theatre.  .The  sandwich — as  substantial  as  was  consist- 
ent with  portability,  and  as  cheap  as  possible — we  hailed 
as  one  of  our  greatest  institutions.  It  forced  its  way 
among  us  at  all  stages  of  the  entertainment,  and  we  were 
always  delighted  to  see  it ;  its  adaptability  to  the  vary- 
ing moods  of  our  nature  was  surprising  ;  we  could  never 
weep  so  comfortably  as  when  our  tears  fell  on  our  sand- 
wich ;  we  could  never  laugh  so  heartily  as  when  we 
choked  with  sandwich  ;  Virtue  never  looked  so  beauti- 
ful or  Vice  so  deformed  as  when  we  paused,  sandwich  in 
hand,  to  consider  what  would  come  of  that  resolution  of 
Wickedness  in  boots  to  sever  Innocence  in  flowered 
chintz  from  Honest  Industry  in  striped  stockings.  When 
the  curtain  fell  for  the  night,  we  still  fell  back  upon 
sandwich,  to  help  us  through  the  rain  and  mire,  and 
home  to  bed. 

This,  as  I  have  mentioned,  was  Saturday  night.  Be- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  325 


ing  Saturday  night,  I  had  accomplished  but  the  half  of 
my  uncommercial  journey  ;  for  its  object  was  to  com- 
pare the  play  on  Saturday  evening  with  the  preaching  in 
the  same  Theatre  on  Sunday  evening. 

Therefore,  at  the  same  hour  of  half  past  six  on  the 
similarly  damp  and  muddy  Sunday  evening,  I  returned 
to  this  Theatre.  I  drove  up  to  the  entrance  (fearful  of 
being  late  or  I  should  have  come  on  foot),  and  founA 
myself  in  a  large  crowd  of  people  who,  I  am  happy  to 
state,  were  put  into  excellent  spirits  by  my  arrival.  Hav- 
ing nothing  to  look  at  but  the  mud  and  the  closed  doors, 
they  looked  at  me,  and  highly  enjoyed  the  comic  spec- 
tacle. My  modesty  inducing  me  to  draw  off,  some 
hundreds  of  yards,  into  a  dark  corner,  they  at  once  for- 
got me,  and  applied  themselves  to  tiieir  former  occupa- 
tion of  looking  at  the  mud,  and  looking  in  at  the  closed 
doors,  which,  being  of  grated  iron-work,  allowed  the 
lighted  passage  within  to  be  seen.  They  were  chiefly 
people  of  respectable  appearance,  odd  and  impulsive  as 
most  crowds  are,  and  making  a  joke  of  being  there  as 
most  crowds  do. 

In  the  dark  corner  I  might  have  sat  a  long  while,  but 
that  a  very  obliging  passer-by  informed  me  that  the 
Theatre  was  already  full,  and  that  the  people  whom  I 
saw  in  the  street  were  all  shut  out  for  want  of  room. 
After  that  I  lost  no  time  in  worming  myself  into  the 
building,  and  creeping  to  a  place  in  a  proscenium  box 
that  had  been  kept  for  me. 

There  must  have  been  full  four  thousand  people  pres- 
ent. Carefully  estimating  the  pit  alone,  I  could  bring  it 
out  as  holding  little  less  than  fourteen  hundred.  Every 
part  of  the  house  was  well  filled,  and  I  had  not  found  it 
easy  to  make  my  way  along  the  back  of  the  boxes  to 
where  I  sat.  The  chandeliers  in  the  ceiling  were  lighted; 
there  was  no  light  on  the  stage  ;  the  orchestra  was 
empty.  The  green  curtain  was  down,  and  packed  pretty 
closely  on  chairs  on  the  small  space  of  stage  before  it 
were  some  thirty  gentlemen,  and  two  or  three  ladies.  In 
the  centre  of  these,  in  a  desk  or  pulpit  covered  with 
red  baize,  was  the  presiding  minister.  The  kind  of  ros- 
trum  he  occupied  will  be  very  well  understood  if  I  liken 
it  to  a  boarded-up  fireplace  turned  towards  the  audience, 
with  a  gentleman  in  a  black  surtout  standing  in  the 
stove  and  leaning  forward  over  the  mantel-piece- 

A  portion  of  Scripture  was  being  read  when  I  went  in. 
It  was  followed  by  a  discourse,  to  which  the  congregation 
listened  with  most  exemplary  attention  and  uninter- 
rupted silence  and  decorum.  My  own  attention  compre- 
hended both  the  auditory  and  the  speaker,  and  shall  turn 
to  both  in  this  recalling  of  the  scene,  exactly  as  it  did 
at  the  time. 


326 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


A  very  difficult  thing/'  I  tfiought,  when  the  discourse 
began,  *'to  speak  appropriately  to  so  large  an  audience, 
and  to  speak  with  tact.  Without  it,  better  not  to  speak 
at  all.  Infinitely  better  to  read  the  New  Testament  well, 
and  to  let  that  speak.  In  this  congregation  there  is  in- 
dubitably on^  pulse  ;  but  I  doubt  if  any  power  short  of 
genius  can  touch  it  as  one,  and  make  it  answer  as  one. 

I  could  not  possibly  say  to  myself,  as  the  discourse 
proceeded,  that  the  minister  was  a  good  speaker.  I  could 
not  possibly  say  to  myself  that  he  expressed  an  under- 
standing of  the  general  mind  and  character  of  his  audi- 
ence. There  was  a  supposititious  workingman  introduced 
into  the  homily,  to  make  supposititious  objections  to  our 
Christian  religion  and  be  reasoned  down,  who  was  not 
only  a  very  disagreeable  person,  but  remarkably  unlike 
life, — very  much  more  unlike  it  than  anything  I  had  seen 
in  the  pantomime.  The  native  independence  of  character 
this  artisan  was  supposed  to  possess  was  represented  by 
a  suggestion  of  a  dialect  that  I  certainly  never  heard  in 
my  uncommercial  travels,  and  with  a  coarse  swing  of 
voice  and  manner,  anything  but  agreeable  to  his  feelings, 
I  should  conceive,  considered  in  the  light  of  a  portrait, 
and  as  far  away  from  the  fact  as  a  Chinese  Tartar.  There 
was  a  model  pauper  introduced  in  like  manner,  who  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  the  most  intolerably  arrrogant  pauper 
ever  relieved,  and  to  show  himself  in  absolute  want  and 
dire  necessity  of  a  course  of  Stone  Yard.  For  how  did 
this  pauper  testify  to  his  having  received  the  gospel  of 
humanity  ?  A  gentleman  met  him  in  the  workhouse,  and 
said  (which  I  myself  really  thought  good-natured  of  him), 
•'Ah,  John  !  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  here.  I  am  sorry  to 
see  you  so  poor."  Poor,  sir  ! "  replied  that  man,  draw- 
ing himself  up,  I  am  the  son  of  a  Prince!  father 
is  the  King  of  kings.  My  father  is  the  Lord  of  lords. 
My  father  is  the  ruler  of  all  the  Princes  of  the  Earth  1 " 
etc.  And  this  was  what  all  the  preacher  s  fellow-sinners 
might  come  to,  it'  they  would  embrace  this  blessed  book, 
— which  I  must  say  it  did  some  violence  to  my  own  feel- 
ings of  reverence  to  see  held  out  at  arm's  length  at  fre» 
quent  intervals,  and  soundingly  slapped,  like  a  slow  lot 
at  a  sale.  Now,  could  I  help  asking  myself  the  question, 
whether  the  mechanic  before  me,  who  must  detect  the 
preacher  as  being  wrong  about  the  visible  manner  of  him- 
self and  the  like  of  himself,  and  about  such  a  noisy  lip- 
server  as  that  pauper,  might  not,  most  unhappily  for  the 
usefulness  of  the  occasion,  doubt  that  preacher's  being 
right  about  things  not  visible  to  human  senses  ? 

Again.  Is  it  necessary  or  advisable  to  address  such  an 
audience  continually  as  fellow-sinners" ?  Is  it  not 
enough  to  be  fellow-creatures,  born  yesterday,  suffering 
and  striving  to-day,  dying  to-morrow  ?    By  our  common 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLEK. 


327 


humanity,  my  brothers  and  sisters,  by  our  common 
capacities  for  pain  and  pleasure,  by  our  common  laughter 
and  our  common  tears,  by  our  common  aspiration  to  reach 
something  better  than  ourselves,  by  our  tendency  to  be- 
lieve in  something  good,  and  to  invest  whatever  we  love 
or  whatever  we  lose  with  some  qualities  that  are  superior 
to  our  own  failings  and  weaknesses  as  we  knew  them  in 
our  own  poor  hearts, — by  these,  hear  me  ! — surely  it  is 
enough  to  be  fellow-creatures.  Surely  it  includes  the 
other  designation  and  some  touching  meanings  over  and 
above. 

Again.  There  was  a  personage  introduced  into  the 
discourse  (not  an  absolute  novelty,  to  the  best  of  my  re- 
membrance of  my  reading),  who  had  been  personally 
known  to  th«  preacher,  and  had  been  quite  a  Crichton  in 
all  the  ways  of  philosophy,  but  had  been  an  infidel. 
Many  a  time  had  the  preacher  talked  with  him  on  that 
subject  and  many  a  time  had  he  failed  to  convince  that 
intelligent  man.  But  he  fell  ill,  and  died  ;  and  before 
he  died  he  recorded  his  conversion, — -in  words  which 
the  preacher  had  taken  down,  my  fellow-sinners,  and 
would  read  to  you  from  this  piece  of  paper.  I  must  con- 
fess that  to  me,  as  one  of  an  uninstr acted  audience,  they 
did  not  appear  particularly  edifying.  I  thought  their 
tone  extremely  selfish,  and  I  thought  they  had  a  spiritual 
vanity  in  them  which  was  of  the  before-mentioned  re- 
fractory pauper's  family. 

All  slangs  and  twangs  are  objectionable  everywhere, 
but  the  slang  and  twang  of  the  conventicle — as  bad  in 
its  way  as  that  of  the  House  of  Commons^  and  nothing 
worse  can  be  said  of  it — should  be  studiously  avoided  un-. 
der  such  circumstances  as  I  describe.  The  avoidance  was 
not  complete  on  this  occasion.  Nor  was  it  quite  agreeable 
to  see  the  preacher  addressing  his  pet  ''points"  to  his 
backers  on  the  stage,  as  if  appealing  to  those  disciples 
to  show  him  up,  and  testify  to  the  multitude  that  each 
of  those  points  was  a  clincher. 

But  in  respect  of  the  large  Christianity  of  his  genera) 
tone  ;  of  his  renunciation  of  all  priestly  authority  ;  of 
his  earnest  and  reiterated  assurance  to  the  people  that 
the  commonest  among  them  could  work  out  their  own 
salvation,  if  they  would,  by  simply,  lovingly,  and  duti- 
fully following  bur  Saviour,  and  that  they  needed  the 
mediation  of  no  erring  man, — in  these  particulars  this 
gentleman  deserved  all  praise.  Nothing  could  be  better 
than  the  spirit,  or  the  plain,  emphatic  words,  of  his  dis- 
course in  these  respects.  And  as  it  was  a  most  signifi- 
cant and  encouraging  circumstance,  that  whenever  he 
struck  that  chord,  or  whenever  he  described  anything 
which  Christ  himself  had  done,  the  array  of  faces  before 
him  was  very  mu(?h  more  earnest,  and  very  much  more 
expressive  of  emotion,  than  at  any  other  time. 


328 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


And  now  I  am  brought  to  the  fact  that  the  lowest  part 
of  the  audience  of  the  previous  night  was  not  there. 
There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  There  was  no  such  thing  in 
that  building,  that  Sunday  evening.  I  have  been  told 
since,  that  the  lowest  part  of  the  audience  of  the  Vic- 
toria Theatre  has  been  attracted  to  its  Sunday  services. 
I  have  been  very  glad  to  hear  it ;  but  on  this  occasion  of 
which  I  write,  the  lowest  part  of  the  usual  audience  of 
the  Britannia  Theatre  decidedly  and  unquestionably 
stayed  away.  When  I  first  took  my  seat  and  looked  at 
the  house,  my  surprise  at  the  change  in  its  occupants 
was  as  great  as  my  disappointment.  To  the  most  re- 
spectable  class  of  the  previous  evening  was  added  a  great 
number  of  respectable  strangers  attracted  by  curiosity, 
and  drafts  from  the  regular  congregations  of  various 
chapels.  It  was  impossible  to  fail  in  identifying  the 
character  of  these  last,  and  they  were  very  numerous. 
I  came  out  in  a  strong,  slow  tide  of  them,  setting  from 
the  boxes.  Indeed,  while  the  discourse  was  in  progress, 
the  respectable  character  of  the  auditory  was  so  manifest 
in  their  appearance,  that  when  the  minister  addressed  a 
supposititious  outcast"  one  really  felt  a  little  impatient 
of  it,  as  a  figure  of  speech  not  justified  by  anything  the 
eye  could  discover. 

The  time  appointed  for  the  conclusion  of  the  proceed- 
ings was  eight  o'clock.  The  address  having  lasted  until 
full  that  time,  and  it  being  the  custom  to  conclude  with 
a  hymn,  the  preacher  intimated,  in  a  few  sensible  words, 
that  the  clock  had  struck  the  hour,  and  that  those  who 
desired  to  go  before  the  hymn  was  sung  could  go  now, 
without  giving  offence.  No  one  stirred.  The  hymn  was 
then  sung  in  good  time  and  tune  and  unison,  and  its  ef- 
fect was  very  striking.  A  comprehensive,  benevolent 
prayer  dismissed  the  throng,  and  in  seven  or  eight  min- 
utes there  was  nothing  left  in  the  Theatre  but  a  light 
cloud  of  dust. 

That  these  Sunday  meetings  in  Theatres  are  good 
things,  I  do  not  doubt.  Nor  do  I  doubt  that  they  will 
work  lower  and  lower  down  in  the  social  scale,  if  those 
who  preside  over  them  will  be  very  careful  on  two  heads  : 
firstly,  not  to  disparage  the  places  in  which  they  speak ^ 
or  the  intelligence  of  their  hearers  ;  secondly,  not  to  set 
themselves  in  antagonism  to  the  natural  inborn  desire 
of  the  mass  of  mankind  to  recreate  themselves  and  to  be 
amused. 

There  is  a  third  head,  taking  precedence  of  all  others, 
to  which  my  remarks  on  the  discourse  I  heard  have  tend- 
ed. In  the  New  Testament  there  is  the  most  beautiful 
and  affecting  history  conceivable  by  man,  and  there  are 
the  terse  models  for  all  prayer,  and  for  all  preaching.  As 
to  the  models,  imitate  them,  Sundgtj^  preachers, — else 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLEK. 


339 


Why  are  they  there,  consider  ?  As  to  the  history,  tell  it. 
Some  people  cannot  read,  some  people  will  not  read, 
many  people  (this  especiallj^  holds  among  the  young  and 
ignorant)  find  it  hard  to  pursue  the  verse  form  in  which 
the  book  is  presented  to  them,  and  imagine  that  those 
breaks  imply  gaps  and  want  of  continuity.  Help  them 
over  that  first  stumbling-block,  by  sett^ag  forth  tlie  his- 
tory in  narrative,  with  no  fear  of  exhausting  it.  You 
will  never  preach  so  well,  you  will  never  move  them  so 
profoundly,  you  will  never  send  them  away  with  half  so 
much  to  think  of.  Which  is  the  better  interest, — Christ's 
choice  of  twelve  poor  men  to  help  in  those  merciful 
wonders  among  the  poor  and  rejected,  or  the  pious  bul- 
lying of  a  whole  Unionful  of  paupers  ?  What  is  your 
changed  philosopher  to  wretched  me,  peeping  in  at  the 
door  out  of  the  mud  of  the  streets  and  of  my  life,  when 
you  have  the  widow's  son  to  tell  me  about,  the  ruler's 
daughter,  the  other  figure  at  the  door  when  the  brother 
of  the  two  sisters  was  dead,  and  one  or  two  ran  to  the 
mourner,  crying,  The  Master  is  come,  and  calleth  for 
thee "  ?  Let  the  preacher  who  will  thoroughly  forget 
himself,  and  remember  no  individuality  but  one,  and  no 
eloquence  but  one,  stand  up  before  four  thousand  men  and 
women  at  the  Britannia  Theatre  any  Sunday  night,  re- 
counting that  narrative  to  them  as  fellow-creatures,  and 
he  shall  see  a  sight  I 


V. 


Poor  Mercantile  Jack, 


Is  the  sweet  little  cherub  who  sits  smiling  aloft,  and 
keeps  watch  on  the  life  of  poor  Jack,  commissioned  to 
take  charge  of  Mercantile  Jack,  as  well  as  Jack  of  the 
national  navy  ?  If  not,  who  is  ?  What  is  the  cherub 
about,  and  what  are  we  all  about,  when  poor  Mercantile 
Jack  is  having  his  brains  slowly  knocked  out  by  penny- 
weights, aboard  the  Brig  Beelzebub,  or  the  bark  Bowie- 
knite, — when  he  looks  his  last  at  that  infernal  craft,  with 
the  first  ofiicer's  iron  boot-heel  in  his  remaining  eye,  or 
with  his  dying  body  towed  overboard  in  the  ship's  wake, 
while  the  cruel  wounds  in  it  do  "  the  multitudinous  seas 
incarnadine  "  ? 

It  is  unreasonable  to  entertain  a  belief  that  if,  aboard 
the  brig  Beelzebub  or  the  bark  Bowie-knife,  the  first 
officer  aid  half  the  damage  to  cotton  that  he  does  to  men, 
there  would  presently  arise  from  both  sides  of  the  Atlan- 


380  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tic  so  vociferous  an  invocation  of  the  sweet  little  cherub 
who  sits  calculating  aloft^  keeping  watch  on  the  mar- 
kets that  pay,  that  such  vigilant  cherub  would,  with 
a  winged  sword,  have  that  gallant  officer's  organ  of 
destructiveness  out  of  his  head  in  the  space  of  a  flash  of 
lightning  ? 

If  it  be  unreasonable,  then  am  I  the  most  unreasonable 
of  men,  for  I  believe  it  with  all  my  soul. 

This  was  my  thought  as  I  walked  the  dock-quays  at 
Liverpool,  keeping  watch  on  poor  Mercantile  Jack.  Alas 
for  me !  I  have  long  outgrown  the  state  of  sweet  little 
cherub;  but  there  I  was,  and  there  Mercantile  Jack  was, 
and  very  busy  he  was,  and  verv  cold  he  was,  the  snow 
yet  lying  in  tne  frozen  furrows  oi  the  land,  and  the  north- 
east winds  snipping  off  the  tops  of  the  little  waves  in 
the  Mersey,  and  rolling  them  into  hailstones  to  pelt  him 
with.  Mercantile  Jack  was  hard  at  it  in  the  hard  weather, 
— as  he  mostly  is  in  all  weathers,  poor  Jack !  He 
was  girded  to  ships'  masts  and  funnels  of  steamers,  like 
a  forester  to  a  great  oak,  scraping  and  painting;  he  was 
lying  out  on  yards,  furling  sails  that  tried  to  beat  him 
off  ;  he  was  dimly  discernible  up  in  a  world  of  giant  cob- 
webs, reefing  and  splicing;  he  was  faintly  audible  down 
in  holds,  stowing  and  unshipping  cargo;  he  was  winding 
round  and  rouncfat  capstans  melodious,  monotonous,  and 
drunk;  he  was  of  a  diabolical  aspect,  with  coaling  for 
the  Antipodes;  he  was  washing  decks  barefoot,  with  the 
breast  of  his  red  shirt  open  to  the  blast,  though  it  was 
sharper  than  the  knife  in  his  leathern  girdle;  he  was 
looking  over  bulwarks,  all  eyes  and  hair;  he  was  stand- 
ing by  at  the  shoot  of  the  Cunard  steamer,  off  to-morrow, 
as  the  stocks  in  trade  of  several  butchers,  poulterers, 
and  fish-mongers  poured  down  into  the  ice-house;  he  was 
coming  aboard  of  other  vessels,  with  his  kit  in  a  tarpau- 
lin bag,  attended  by  plunderers  to  the  very  last  moment 
of  his  shore-going  existence.  As  though  his  senses,  wheE 
released  from  the  uproar  of  the  elements,  were  under  ob- 
ligation to  be  confused  by  other  turmoil,  there  was  a 
rattling  of  wheels,  a  clattering  of  hoofs,  a  clashing  of 
iron,  a  jolting  of  cotton  and  hides  and  casks  and  timber, 
an  incessant  deafening  disturbance  on  the  quays,  that 
was  the  very  madness  of  sound.  And  as,  in  the  midst 
of  it,  he  stood  swaying  about,  with  his  hair  blown  all 
manner  of  wild  ways,  rather  crazedly  taking  leave  of  his 
plunderers,  all  the  rigging  in  the  docks  was  shrill  in  the 
wind,  and  every  little  steamer  coming  and  going  across 
the  Mersey  was  sharp  in  its  blowing  off,  and  every  buoy  in 
the  river  bobbed  spitefully  up  and  down,  as  if  there  were 
a  general  taunting  chorus  of  *'  Come  along.  Mercan- 
tile Jack  I  Ill-lodged,  ill-fed,  ill-used,  hocussed,  en- 
trapped, anticipated,  cleaned  out !  Come  along.  Poor 
Mercantile  Jack,  and  be  tempest-tossed  till  you  are 
drowned ! " 

The  uncommercial  transaction  which  had  brought  me 
and  Jack  together  was  this:  I  had  entered  the  Liverpool 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  331 


police  force,  tbat  I  might  have  a  look  at  the  various  un- 
lawful traps  which  are  every  night  set  for  Jack.  Aft 
my  term  of  service  in  that  distinguished  corps  was  short, 
and  as  my  personal  bias  in  the  capacity  of  one  of  its 
members  has  ceased,  no  suspicion  will  attach  to  my  evi- 
dence that  it  is  an  admirable  force.  Besides  that  it  is  com- 
posed, without  favor,  of  the  best  men  that  can  be  picked, 
it  is  directed  by  an  unusual  intelligence.  Its  organization 
against  fires,  I  take  to  be  much  better  than  trie  metro- 
politan system,  and  in  all*  respects  it  tempers  its  re- 
markable vigilance  with  a  still  more  remarkable  dis- 
cretion. 

Jack  had  knocked  off  work  in  the  docks  some  hours, 
and  I  had  taken,  for  purposes  of  identification,  a  photo- 

fraph-likeness  of  a  thief,  in  the  portrait-room  at  our 
ead  police-office  (on  the  whole,  he  seemed  rather  com- 
plimented by  the  proceeding),  and  I  had  been  on  police 
parade,  and  the  small  hand  of  the  clock  was  moving  on 
to  ten,  when  I  took  up  my  lantern  to  follow  Mr.  Superin 
tendent  to  the  traps  that  were  set  for  Jack. 

In  Mr.  Superintendent  I  saw,  as  anybody  might,  a  tall, 
well-looking,  well  set-up  man  of  a  soldierly  bearing,  with 
a  cavalry  air,  a  good  chest,  and  a  resolute,  but  not  by  any 
means  ungentle  face.  He  carried  in  his  hand  a  plain 
black  walking-stick  of  hard  wood;  and  whenever  and 
wherever,  at  any  aftertime  of  the  night,  he  struck  it  on  the 
pavement  with  a  ringing  sound,  it  instantly  produced  a 
whistle  out  of  the  darkness,  and  a  policeman. 

To  this  remarkable  stick  I  refer  an  air  of  mystery  and 
magic  which  prevaded  the  whole  of  my  perquisition  among 
the  traps  that  were  set  for  Jack. 

We  beg9,n  by  diving  into  the  obscurest  streets  and 
lanes  of  the  port.  Suddenly  pausing  in  a  flow  of  cheerful 
discourse,  before  a  dead  wall  apparently  some  ten  miles 
long,  Mr.  Superintendent  struck  upon  the  ground,  and 
the  wall  opened  and  shot  out,  Avith  military  salute  of 
hand  to  temple,  two  policemen, — not  in  the  least  sur- 
prised themselves,  not  in  the  least  surprising  Mr.  Su- 
perintendent. 

•'AH  right,  Sharpeye?" 

"  All  right,  sir." 

"  A»ll  right,  Trampfoot?  " 

"  All  right,  sir." 

"Is  Quickear  there ? " 

*'  Here  I  am,  sir." 

"  Come  with  us." 

**  Yes,  sir." 

So  Sharpeye  went  before,  and  Mr.  Superintendent  and 
I  went  next,  and  Trampfoot  and  Quickear  marched  as 
rear-guard.  Sharpeye,  I  soon  had  occasion  to  remark, 
had  a  skilful  and  quite  professional  way  of  opening 
doors,— touched  latches  aelicatel3%  as  if  they  were 
keys  of  musical  instruments, — opened  every  door  he 
touched,   as  if  he  were   perfectly  confident  that  thore 


332 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


was  stolen  property  behind  it, — instantly  insinuated  him- 
self to  prevent  its  being  shut. 
Sharpeye  opened  several  doors  of  traps  that  were  set 


them.  They  were  all  such  miserable  places  that  really, 
Jack,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  give  them  a  wider  berth. 

In  every  trap  somebody  was  sitting  over  a  fire,  waiting 
for  Jack.  Now  it  was  a  crouching  old  woman,  like  the 
picture  of  the  Norwood  Gypsy  in  the  old  sixpenny  dream 
books;  nov/  it  was  a  crimp  of  the  male  sex  in  a  checked 
shirt  and  without  a  coat,  reading  a  newspaper;  now  it  was 
a  man  crimp  and  a  woman  crimp,  who  always  introduced 
themselves  as  united'  in  holy  matrimony;  now  it  was 
Jack's  delight,  his  (un)lovely  Nan;  but  they  were  all 
waiting  for  Jack,  and  were  all  frightfully  disappointed 
to  see  us. 

"  Who  have  you  got  up  stairs  here  ?  "  says  Sharpeye, 
generally.    (In  the  Move-on  tone„) 

"  Nobody,  surr;  sure  not  a  blessed  sowl  I  "  (Irish  femi- 
nine reply.) 

**  What  do  you  mean  by  nobody  ?  Didn't  I  hear  a 
woman's  step  go  up-stairs  when  my  hand  was  on  the 
latch?" 

"  Ah  !  sure  thin  you're  right,  surr,  I  forgot  her.  'T  is 
on'y  Betsy  White,  sir.  Ah  !  you  know  Betsy,  surr.  Come 
down,  Betsy  darlin',  and  say  the  gintlemin.'' 

Generally,  Betsy  looks  over  the  banisters  (the  steep 
staircase  is  in  the  room)  with  a  forcible  expression,  in  her 
protesting  face,  of  an  intention  to  compensate  herself  for 
the  present  trial  by  grinding  Jack  finer  than  usual  when 
he  does  come.  Generally,  Sharpeye  turns  to  Mr.  Superin- 
tendent, and  says,  as  if  the  subjects  of  his  remarks  were 
waxwork: — 

"  One  of  the  worst,  sir,  this  house  is.  This  woman  has 
been  indicted  three  times.  This  man's  a  regular  bad  one 
likewise.  His  real  name  is  Pegg.  Gives  himself  out  as 
Waterhouse." 

"  Never  had  sitch  a  name  as  Pegg  near  me  back,  thin, 
since  I  was  in  this  house,  bee  the  good  Lard  !  "  says  the 
woman. 

Generally,  the  man  says  nothing  at  all,  but  becomes 
exceedingly  round-shouldered,  and  pretends  to  read  his 
paper  with  rapt  attention.  Generally,  Sharpeye  directs 
our  observation,  with  a  look,  to  the  prints  and  pictures 
that  are  invariably  numerous  on  the  walls.  Always 
Trampfoot  and  Quickear  are  taking  notice  on  the  door- 
step. 

In  default  of  Sharpeye  being  acquainted  with  the  exact 
individuality  of  any  gentleman  encountered,  one  of  these 
two  is  sure  to  proclaim  from  the  outer  air,  like  a  gruff 
spectre,  that  Jackson  is  not  Jackson,  but  knows  him- 
self to  be  Fogle;  or  that  Canlon  is  Walker's  brother, 


for  Jack,  but  Jack 


to  be  in  any  of 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  333 


against  whom  there  was  not  sufficient  evidence;  or  that 
the  man  who  says  he  never  was  at  sea  since  he  was  a 
hoy  came  ashore  from  a  voyage  last  Thursday  or  sails 
to-mon*ow  morning.  "  And  that  is  a  bad  class  of  men, 
you  see,"  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  when  he  got  out  into 
the  dark  again,  "and  very  difficult  to  deal  with,  who, 
when  he  has  made  this  place  too  hot  to  hold  him,  enters 
himself  for  a  voyage  as  steward  or  cook,  and  is  out  of 
knowledge  for  months,  and  then  turns  up  again  worse 
than  ever." 


come  out  (always  leaving  everybody  relapsing  into  wait- 
ing for  Jack),  we  started  off  to  a  singing-house,  where 
Jack  was  expected  to  muster  strongly. 

The  vocalization  was  taking  place  in  a  long  low  room 
up-stairs;  at  one  end  an  orchestra  of  two  performers, 
and  a  small  platform;  across  the  room  a  series  of  open 
pews  for  Jack  with  an  aisle  down  the  middle;  at  the  other 
end  a  larger  pew  than  the  rest,  entitled  Snug,  and  re- 
served for  mates  and  similar  good  company. 

About  the  room  some  amazing  coffee-coloured  pictures 
varnished  an  inch  deep,  and  some  stuffed  creatures  in 
cases;  dotted  amon^  the  audience,  in  Snug  and  out 
of  Snug,  the  Professionals,"  among  them  the  cele- 
brated comic  favourite,  Mr.  Banjo  Bones,  looking  very 
hideous  with  his  blackened  face  and  limp  sugar-loaf 
hat;  beside  him,  sipping  rum  and  water,  Mrs.  Banjo 
Bones,  in  her  natural  colours, — a  little  heightened. 

It  was  a  Friday  night,  and  Friday  night  was  considered 
not  a  good  night  for  Jack.  At  any  rate,  Jack  did  not 
show  in  very  great  force  even  here,  though  the  house  was 
one  to  which  he  much  resorts,  and  where  a  good  deal  of 
money  Is  taken. 

There  was  British  Jack,  a  little  maudlin  and  sleepy, 
lolling  over  his  empty  glass  as  if  he  were  trying  to  read 
his  fortune  at  the  bottom;  there  was  Loafing  Jack  of  the 
Stars  and  Stripes,  rather  an  unpromising  customer,  with 
his  long  nose,  lank  cheek,  high  cheek-bones,  and  nothing 
soft  about  him  but  his  cabbage-leaf  hat;  there  was  Span- 
ish Jack,  with  curls  of  black  hair,  rings  in  his  ears,  and  a 
knife  not  far  from  his  hand,  if  you  got  into  trouble  with 
him;  there  were  Maltese  Jack,  aud  Jack  of  Sweden,  and 
Jack  of  Finn,  looming  through  the  smoke  of  their  pipes, 
and  turning  faces  that  looked  as  if  they  were  carved 
out  of  dark  wood  towards  the  young  lady  dancing  the 
hornpipe,  who  found  the  platform  so  exceedingly  small 
for  it,  that  I  had  a  nervous  expectation  of  seeing  her, 
in  the  backward  steps,  disappear  through  the  win- 
dow. Still,  if  all  hands  had  been  got  together,  they 
would  not  have  more  than  half  filled  the  room. 

Observe,  however,  said  Mr.  Licensed  Victualler,  the 
host,  that  it  was  Friday  night,  and  besides,  it  was  getting 
on  for  twelve,  and  Jack  had  gone  aboard.  A  sharp  ana 
watchful  man,  Mr.  Licensed  Victualler,  the  host,  with 


When 


many  such  houses,  and  had 


334  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tight  lips,  and  a  complete  edition  of  Cocker's  arith- 
metic in  each  eye.  Attended  to  his  business  himself,  he 
said.    Always  on  the  spot. 

When  he  heard  of  talent,  trusted  nobody's  account 
of  it,  but  went  off  by  rail  to  see  it.  If  true  talent, 
engaged  it.  Pounds  a  week  for  talent,— four  pound, 
— hve  pound.   Banjo  Bones  was  undoubted  talent. 

Hear  this  instrument  that  was  going  to  plav, — it  was 
real  talent?  In  truth  it  was  very  good:  a  kina  of  piano- 
accordeon,  played  by  a  young  girl  of  a  delicate  prettiness 
of  face,  figure,  and  dress,  that  made  the  audience  look 
coarser.  She  sang  to  the  instrument,  too;  first,  a  song 
about  village  bells,  and  how  they  chimed;  then  a  song 
about  how  I  went  to  sea;  winding  up  with  an  imitation  of 
the  bag-pipes,  which  Mercantile  Jack  seemed  to  under- 
stand much  the  best.  A  good  girl,  said  Mr.  Licensed 
Victualler.  Kept  herself  select.  Sat  in  Snug,  not  listen- 
ing to  the  blandishments  of  Mates.  Lived  with  mother. 
Father  dead.  Once  a  merchant  well  to  do,  but  over- 
speculated  himself. 

On  delicate  inquiry  as  to  salary  paid  for  item  of  talent 
under  consideration,  Mr.  Victualler's  pounds  dropped  sud- 
denly to  shillings, — still  it  was  a  very  comfortaole  thing 
for  a  young  person  like  that,  you  know;  she  only  went  on 
six  times  a  night,  and  was  only  required  to  be  there  from 
six  at  night  to  twelve. 

What  was  more  conclusive  was  Mr.  Victualler's  assur- 
ance that  he  *'  never  allowed  any  language,  and  never 
suffered  any  disturbance."  Sharpeye  confirmed  the 
statement,  and  the  order  that  prevailed  was  the  best 
proof  of  it  that  could  have  been  cited.  So  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  poor  Mercantile  Jack  might  do  (as  I  am 
afraid  he  does)  much  worse  than  trust  himself  to  Mr. 
Victualler,  and  pass  his  evenings  here. 

But  we  had  not  yet  looked,  Mr.  Superintendent, — said 
Trampfoot,  receiving  us  in  the  street  again  with  military 
salute, — for  Dark  Jack.  True,  Trampfoot.  Ring  the 
wonderful;  stick,  rub  the  wonderful  lantern,  and  cause  the 
spirits  of  the  stick  and  lantern  to  convey  us  to  the 
Darkies. 

There  was  no  disappointment  in  the  matter  of  Dark 
Jack;  he  was  producible. 

The  Genii  set  us  down  in  the  little  first  floor  of  a  little 
public-house,  and  there,  in  a  stiflingly  close  atmosphere, 
where  Dark  Jack,  and  Dark  Jack  s  delight,  his.  white 
unlovely  Nan,  sitting  against  the  wall  all  round  the  room. 
More  than  that;  Dark  Jack's  delight  was  the  least  un- 
lovely Nan,  both  morally  and  physically,  that  I  saw 
that  night. 

As  a  fiddle  and  tambourine  band  were  sitting  among 
the  company,  Quickear  suggested,  Why  not  strike  up  ? 
Ah,  la  ads  !  "  said  a  negro  sitting  by  the  door,  "  gib 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  835 


the  jebblem  a  darnse.  Tak'  yah  pardlers,  jebblem,  for 
'um  QUAD-rill." 

This  was  the  landlord,  in  a  Greek  cap,  and  a  dress  half 
Greek  and  half  English.  As  master  of  the  ceremonies  he 
called  all  the  figures,  and  occasionally  addressed  himself 
parenthetically  after  this  manner.  When  he  was  very 
loud,  I  use  capitals. 

*'  Now  den  !  Hoy  !  One.  Right  and  left.  (Put  a  steam 
on,  gib  'um  powder.)  LA-dies'  chail.  Bal-Ioou  say. 
Lemonade  !  Two.  AD-warnse  and  go  back  (gib  'ell  a 
breakdown,  shake  it  out  o'  yerselbs,  keep  a  movil). 
Swing  corners,  Bal-Ioou  say,  and  Lemonade  !  (Hoy !) 
Three.  Gent  come  for'ard  with  a  lady  and  go  back, 
hoppersite  come  for'ard  and  do  what  yer  can.  (Aeiohoy  !) 
BAL-loon  say,  and  leetle  lemonade.  (Dat  hair  nigger  by 
'um  fireplace  'hind  a'  time,  shake  it  out  o'  yerselbs,  gib' 
ell  a  breakdown.)  Now  den  !  Hoy  !  Four  !  Lemonade. 
BAL-loon  say,  and  swing.  Four  ladies  meets  in  'um 
middle,  four  gents  goes  round  'um  ladies,  four 
gents  passes  out  under  'um  ladies'  arms,  swing, — and 
Lemonade  till  a  moosic  can't  play  no  more !  (Hoy, 
Hoy  !) " 

The  male  dancers  were  all  blacks,  and  one  was  an  nm 
usually  powerful  man  of  six  feet  three  or  four.  The 
sound  of  their  flat  feet  on  the  floor  was  as  unlike  the 
sound  of  white  feet  as  their  faces  were  unlike  white 
faces.  They  toed  and  heeled,  shuffled,  double-shuffled, 
double-double-shuffied,  covered  the  buckle,  and  beat  the 
time  out  rarely,  dancing  with  a  great  show  of  teeth,  and 
with  a  childish  good-humoured  enjoyment  that  was  very 
prepossessing.  They  generally  kept  together,  these  poor 
fellows,  said  Mr.  Superintendent,  because  they  were  at 
a  disadvantage  singly,  and  liable  to  slights  in  the 
neighbouring  streets. 

But  if  I  were  Light.  Jack,  I  should  be  very  slow 
to  interfere  oppressively  with  Dark  Jack;  for  whenever  I 
have  had  to  do  with  him,  1  have  found  him  a  simple 
and  a  gentle  fellow.  Bearing  this  in  mind,  I  asked 
his  friendly  permission  to  leave  him  restoration  of  beer, 
in  wishing  him  good  night,  and  thus  it  fell  out  that  the 
last  words  I  heard  him  say,  as  I  blundered  down  the 
worn  stairs,  were,  "  Jebblem's  elth  !  Ladies  drinks 
fust ! " 

The  night  was  now  well  on  into  the  morning,  but  for 
miles  and  hours  we  explored  a  strange  world,  where  no- 
body ever  goes  to  bed,  but  everybody  is  eternally  sitting 
up,  waiting  for  Jack.  This  exploration  was  among  a 
labyrinth  of  dismal  courts  and  blind  alleys,  called  En- 
tries, kept  in  wonderful  order  by  the  police,  and  in  much 
better  order  than  by  the  corporation;  the  want  of  gas- 
light in  the  most  dangerous  and  infamous  of  these  places 
being  quite  unworthy  of  so  spirited  a  town .  I  need  de- 
scribe but  two  or  three  of  the  houses  in  which  Jack  was 
waited  for  as  specimens  of  the  rest.    Many  we  attained 


336 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


by  noisome  passages  so  profoundly  dark  that  we  felt  our 
way  with  our  hands. 

Not  one  of  the  whole  number  we  visited  was  without 
its  show  of  prints  and  ornamental  crockery;  the  quality 
of  the  latter  set  forth  on  little  shelves  and  in  little 
cases,  in  otherwise  wretched  rooms,  indicating  that 
Mercantile  Jack  must  have  an  extraordinary  fondness 
for  crockery,  to  necessitate  so  much  of  that  bait  in  his 
traps. 

Among  such  garniture,  in  one  front  parlour  in  the  dead 
of  the  night,  four  women  were  sitting  by  a  fire.  One  of 
them  had  a  male  child  in  her  arms.  On  a  stool  among 
them  was  a  swarthy  youth  with  a  guitar,  who  had 
evidently  stopped  playing  when  our  footsteps  were 
heard. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  do  ? "  says  Mr.  Superintendent, 
looking  about  him. 

*^  Pretty  well,  sir,  and  hope  you  gentlemen  are  going 
to  treat  us  ladies,  now  you  have  come  to  see  us." 

*'  Order  there!  "  says  Sharpeye. 

*'  None  of  that!  "  says  Quickear. 

Trampfoot,  outside,  is  heard  to  confide  to  himself, 
*'  Meggisson's  lot,  this  is.    And  a  bad  'un!  " 

"Well?"  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  lading  his  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  swarthy  youth,  "and  who's 
this?" 

**  Antonio,  sir." 

"  And  what  does  he  do  here  ?  " 

"  Come  to  give  us  a  bit  of  music.  No  harm  in  that,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  A  young  foreign  sailor  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He's  a  Spaniard.  You're  a  Spaniard,  ain't  you, 
Antonio  ?  " 

"Me  Spanish." 

"And  he  don't  know  a  word  you  say,  not  he;  not  if 


if  it  redounded  to  the  credit  of  the  house.) 
"  Will  he  play  something  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  if  you  like.  Play  something,  Antonio.  You 
ain't  ashamed  to  play  something, — are  you  ?  " 

The  cracked  guitar  raises  the  feeblest  ^host  of  a  tune, 
and  three  of  the  women  keep  time  to  it  with  their  heads, 
and  the  fourth  with  the  child.  If  Antonio  has  brought 
any  money  in  with  him,  I  am  afraid  he  will  never  take 
it  out,  and  it  even  strikes  me  that  his  jacket  and 
guitar  may  be  in  a  bad  way. 

But  the  look  of  the  young  man,  and  the  tinkling  of 
the  instrument,  so  change  the  place  in  a  moment  to  a 
leaf  out  of  Don  Quixote,  that  I  wonder  where  his  mule 
is  stabled,  until  he  leaves  off. 

I  am  bound  to  acknowledge  (as  it  tends  rather  to  my; 
uncommercial  confusion,)  that  I  occasioned  a  difficulty^ 
in  this  establishment  by  havinar  taken  the  child  in  my, 


you  was  to  talk  to  him  till  doomsda; 


(Triumphantly,  as 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLKK. 


arms.  For,  on  my  offering  to  restore  it  to  a  ferocious 
joker,  not  unstimulated  by  rum,  who  claimed  to  be  its 
mother,  that  unnatural"  parent  put  her  hands  behind  her, 
and  declined  to  accept  it;  backing  into  the  fireplace,  and 
very  shrilly  declaring,  regardless  of  remonstrance  from 
her  friends,  that  she  knowed  it  to  be  Law,  that  whoever 
took  a  child  from  its  mother,  of  his  own  will,  was  bound 
to  stick  to  it.  The  uncommercial  sense  of  being  in  a  ra- 
ther ridiculous  position,  with  the  poor  little  child  begin- 
ning to  be  frightened,  was  relieved  by  my  worthy  friend 
and  fellow  -  constable,  Trampfoot,  who,  laying  hands 
on  the  article  as  if  it  were  a  Bottle,  passed  it  on  to  the 
nearest  woman,  and  bade  her  *'  take  hold  of  that."  As 
we  came  out,  the  Bottle  was  passed  to  the  ferocious 
joker,  and  they  all  sat  down  as  before,  including  An- 
tonio and  the  guitar. 

It  was  clear  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  night- 
cap to  this  baby's  head,  and  that  even  he  never  went 
to  bed,  but  was  always  kept  up — and  would  grow  up, 
kept  up— waiting  for  Jack. 

Later  still  in  the  night  we  came  (by  the  court  "  where 
the  man  was  murdered,"  and  by  the  other  court  across 
the  street  into  which  his  body  was  dragged)  to  another 
parlour  in  another  Entry,  where  several  people  were  sit- 
ting round  a  lire  in  just  the  same  way. 

It  was  a  dirty  and  offensive  place,  with  some  ragged 
clothes  drying  in  it;  but  there  was  a  high  shelf  over 
the  entrance  door  (to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  marauding 
hands,  possibly)  with  two  large  white  loaves  on  it,  and  a 
great  piece  of  Cheshire  cheese. 

"  Well !  "  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  with  a  comprehen- 
sive look  all  round.    "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 

"Not  much  to  boast  of,  sir,"  —  from  the  curtseying 
woman  of  the  house.    "  This  is  my  good  man,  sir." 

"  You  are  not  registered  as  a  common  Lodsrins:- 
House?"  ^  ^ 

.  "  No,  sir." 

Sharpeye  (in  the  move-on  tone)  puts  in  the  pertinent 
inquiry,  "  Then  why  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  Ain't  got  no  one  here,  Mr.  Sharpeye,"  rejoins  the 
woman  ana  my  good  man  together,  *'  but  our  own  fam- 
ily" 

"  How  many  are  you  in  family  ?  " 

The  woman  takes  time  to  count,  under  pretence  of 
coughing,  and  adds,  as  one  scant  of  breath,  "  Seven, 
sir. 

But  she  has  missed  one;  so  Sharpeye,  who  knows  all 
about  it,  says, — 

*'  Here's  a  young  man  here  makes  eight,  who  ain't  of 
your  family  ? ' 

"  No,  Mr.  Sharpeye,  he's  a  weekly  lodger," 

"  What  does  he  do  for  a  living  ?  " 


388 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  young  man  here  takes  the  reply  upon  himself, 
and  shortly  answers,  "  Ain't  got  nothing  to  do." 

The  young  man  here  is  modestly  brooding  behind  a 
damp  apron  pendant  from  a  clothes-line. 

As  I  glance  at  him  I  become  —  but  I  don't  know 
why — vaguely  reminded  of  Woolwich,  Chatham,  Ports- 
mouth, and  Dover.  When  we  ^et  out,  my  respected 
fellow-constable  Sharpeye,  addressmg  Mr.  Superintendent, 
says,— 

*'  You  noticed  that  young  man,  sir,  in  at  Darby's?  " 
"Yes.    What  is  he?" 
*'  Deserter,  sir." 

Mr.  Sharpeye  further  intimates  that  when  we  have 
done  with  his  services,  he  will  step  back  and  take  that 
young  man.  Which  in  the  course  of  time  he  does;  feel- 
ing at  perfect  ease  about  finding  him,  and  knowing  for  a 
moral  certainty  that  nobody  in  that  region  will  be  gone  to 
bed. 

Later  still  in  the  night  we  came  to  another  parlour  up 
a  step  or  two  from  the  street,  which  was  very  cleanly, 
neatly,  even  tastefully  kept,  and  in  which,  set  forth  on 
a  draped  chest  of  drawers  masking  the  staircase,  was 
such  a  profusion  of  ornamental  cfockery  that  it  would 
have  furnished  forth  a  handsome  sale-booth  at  a  fair. 
It  backed  up  an  old  stout  lady, — Hogarth  drew  her 
exact  likeness  more  than  once, — and  a  boy  who  was  care- 
fully writing  a  copy  in  a  copy-book. 

*'  Well,  ma'am,  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

Sweetly,  she  can  assure  the  dear  gentlemen,  sweetly. 
Charmingly,  charmingly.    And  overjoyed  to  see  us! 

*'  Why,  this  is  a  strange  time  for  this  boy  to  be  writing 
his  copy, — in  the  middle  of  the  night!  " 

"So  it  is,  dear  gentlemen,  Heaven  bless  your  welcome 
faces  and  send  ye  prosperous !  but  he  has  been  to  the 
Play  with  a  young  friend  for  his  diversion,  and  he  com- 
bines his  improvement  with  entertainment,  by  doing 
his  school-writing  afterwards,  God  be  good  to  ye!  " 

The  ;Copy  admonished  human  nature  to  subjugate  the 
fire  of  every  fierce  desire.  One  might  have  thought  it 
recommended  stirring  the  fire,  the  old  lady  so  approved 
it.  There  she  sat,  rosily  beaming  at  the  copy-book  and 
the  boy,  and  invoking  showers  of  blessings  on  our  heads, 
when  we  left  her  in  the  middle  of  the  night  waiting  for 
Jack. 

Later  still  in  the  night  we  came  to  a  nauseous  room 
with  an  earth  floor,  into  which  the  refuse  scum  of  an 
alley  trickled. 

The  stench  of  this  habitation  was  abominable;  the 
geeming  poverty  of  it  diseased  and  dire.  Yet  here  again 
was  a  visitor  or  logger,  —  a  man  sitting  before  the  fire, 
like  the  rest  of  them  elsewhere,  and  apparently  not  dis- 
tasteful to  the  mistress's  niece,  who  was  also  before  the 
fire.  The  mistress  herself  had  the  misfortune  of  being, 
in  jail. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  839 


Three  weird  old  women  of  transcendent  ghastliness 
were  at  needle-work  at  a  table  in  this  room.  Says 
Trampfoot  to  First  Witch,  What  are  you  making?" 
Says  she,  "  Money-bags." 

What  are  you  making?"  retorts  Trampfoot,  a  little 
off  his  balance. 

*'Bags  to  hold  your  money,"  says  the  witch,  shaking 
her  head,  and  setting  her  teeth, — "  you  as  has  got  it." 

She  holds  up  a  common  cash-bag,  and  on  tiie  table  is  a 
heap  of  such  bags.  Witch  Two  laughs  at  us.  Witch 
Three  scowls  at  us.  Witch  sisterhood  all  stitch,  stitch. 
First  Witch  has  a  red  circle  round  each  eye.  I  fancy  it 
like  the  beginning  of  the  development  ol  a  perverted 
diabolical  halo,  and  that,  when  it  spreads  all  round  her 
head,  she  will  die  in  the  odour  of  devilry. 

Trampfoot  wishes  to  be  informed  what  First  Witch 
has  got  behind  the  table,  d.own  by  the  side  of  her,  there. 
Witches  Two  and  Three  croak,  angrily,  Show  him  the 
child! " 

She  drags  out  a  skinny  little  arm  from  a  brown  dust- 
heap  on  the  ground.  Adjured  not  to  disturb  the  child, 
ghe  lets  it  drop  again.  Thus  we  find  at  last  that  there 
is  one  child  in  the  world  of  Entries  who  goes  to  bed, — 
if  this  be  bed. 

Mr.  Superintendent  asks,  How  long  are  they  going  to 
work  at  those  bags  ? 

How  long?  First  Witch  repeats.  Going  to  have 
supper  presently.  See  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  the 
plates. 

"Late?  Ay!  But  we  has  to  'am  our  supper  afore 
we  eats  it!  " 

Both  the  other  witches  repeat  this  after  First  Witch, 
and  take  the  Uncommercial  measurement  with  their  eyes, 
as  for  a  charmed  winding-sheet.  Some  grim  discourse 
ensues,  referring  to  the  mistress  of  the  cave,  who  will  be 
released  from  jail  to-morrow. 

Witches  pronounce  Trampfoot  "  ri^ht  there,"  when  he 
deems  it  a  trying  distance  tor  the  old  lady  to  walk;  she 
shall  be  fetched  by  niece  in  a  spring-cart. 

As  I  took  a  parting  look  at  iirst  Witch  in  turning 
away,  the  red  marks  round  her  eyes  seem  to  have  already 

frown  larger,  and  she  hungrily  and  thirstily  looked  out 
eyond  me  into  the  dark  doorway  to  see  if  Jack  were 
there.  For  Jack  came  even  here,  and  the  mistress  had  got 
into  jail  through  deluding  Jack. 

When  I  at  last  ended  this  night  of  travel,  and  got  to 
bed,  I  failed  to  keep  my  mind  on  comfortable  thoughts 
of  Seaman's  Homes  (not  overdone  with  strictness),  and 
improved  dock  regulations  giving  Jack  greater  benefit  of 
fire  and  candle  aboard  ship,  through  my  mind's  wandering 
among  the  vermin  I  had  seen. 

Afterwards  the  same  vermin  ran  all  over  my  sleep.  Ev- 
ermore, when  on  a  breezy  day  I  see  Poor  Mercantile  Jack 
running  into  port  with  a  fair  wind  under  all  sail,  I  shall 
think  ot  the  unsleeping  host  of  devourers  who  never  go  to 
bed,  and  are  always  in  their  set  traps  waiting:  for  him. 


340 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


VI. 

Refreshments  for  Travellers. 

In  the  late  high  winds  I  was  blown  to  a  great  many 
places, — and  indeed,  wind  or  no  wind,  I  generally  have 
extensive  transactions  on  hand  in  the  article  of  Air,— 
but  I  have  not  been  blown  to  any  English  place  lately, 
and  I  very  seldom  have  blown  to  any  English  place  in 
my  life,  where  I  could  get  anything  good  to  eat  and  drink 
in  five  minutes,  or  where,  if  I  sought  it,  I  was  received 
with  a  welcome. 

This  is  a  curious  thing  to  consider.  But  before  (stimu^ 
lated  by  my  own  experiences  and  the  representations  ot 
many  fellow-travellers  of  every  uncommercial  and  com- 
mercial degree)  1  consider  it  further,  I  must  utter  a  pass- 
ing word  or  wonder  concerning  high  winds. 

I  wonder  why  metropolitan  gales  always  blow  so  hard 
at  Walworth.  1  cannot  imagine  what  Walworth  has 
done  to  bring  such  windy  punishment  upon  itself  as  I 
never  fail  to  find  recorded  in  the  newspapers  when  the 
wind  has  blown  at  all  hard.  Brixton  seems  to  have 
somethiDg  on  its  conscience ;  Peckham  suffers  more 
than  a  virtuous  Peckham  might  be  supposed  to  deserve; 
the  howling  neighbourhood  of  Deptford  figures  largely 
in  the  accounts  of  the  ingenuous  gentlemen  who  are  out 
in  every  wind  that  blows,  and  to  whom  it  is  an  ill  high 
wind  that  blows  no  good;  but  there  can  hardly  be  any 
Walworth  left  by  this  time.  It  must  surely  be  blown 
away.  I  have  read  of  more  chimney-stacks  and  house- 
copings  coming  down  with  terrific  smashes  at  Walworth, 
and  of  more  sacred  edifices  being  nearly  (not  quite) 
blown  out  to  sea  from  the  same  accursed  locality,  than 
I  have  read  of  practised  thieves  with  the  appearance 
and  manners  of  gentlemen,  —  a  popular  phenomenon 
which  never  existed  on  earth  out  of  fiction  and  a  police 
report.  Again :  I  wonder  why  people  are  always  blown 
into  the  Surrey  Canal,  and  into  no  other  piece  of  water! 
Why  do  people  get  up  early,  and  go  out  in  groups,  to  be 
blown  into  the  Surrey  Canal!  Do  they  say  to  one  an- 
other, *'  Welcome  death,  so  that  we  get  into  the  news= 
papers ! " 

Even  that  would  be  an  insufficient  explanation,  because 
even  then  they  might  sometimes  put  themselves  in  the  way 
of  being  blown  into  the  Kegent's  Canal,  instead  of  always 
saddling  Surrey  for  the  field. 

Some  nameless  policeman,  too,  is  constantly,  on  the 
slightest  provocation,  getting  himself  blown  into  this 
same  Surrey  Canal.  Will  Sir  Richard  Mayne  see  to 
it,  and  restrain  that  weak  -  minded  and  feeble  -  bodied 
constable  ? 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


241 


To  resume  the  consideration  of  the  curious  question  of 
Refreshment.  I  am  a  Briton,  and,  as  such,  I  am  aware 
that  I  never  will  be  a  slave, — and  yet  I  have  latent  suspi- 
cion that  there  must  be  some  slavery  of  wrong  custom  in 
this  matter. 

I  travel  by  railroad.  I  start  from  home  nt  seven  or 
eight  in  the  morning,  after  breakfasting  hurriedly.  What 
with  skimming  over  the  open  landscape,  what  with  min- 
ing in  the  damp  bowels  of  the  earth,  what  with  banging, 
booming,  and  shrieking  the  scores  of  miles  away,  1  am 
hungry  when  I  arrive  at  the  "Refreshment"  station  where 
I  am  expected.  Please  to  observe  —  expected.  I  have 
said  I  am  hungry;  perhaps  I  might  say,  with  greater 
point  and  force,  that  I  am  to  some  extent  exhausted,  and 
that  I  need — in  the  expressive  French  sense  of  the  word — 
to  be  restored. 

What  is  provided  for  my  restoration?  The  apartment 
that  is  to  restore  me  is  a  wind-trap,  cunningly  set  to  in- 
veigle all  the  draughts  in  that  countryside,  and  to  commu- 
nicate a  special  intensity  and  velocity  to  them  as  they 
rotate  in  two  hurricanes, — one  about  my  wretched  head, 
one  about  my  wretched  legs.  The  training  of  the  young 
ladies  behind  the  counter  who  are  to  restore  me  has  been 
from  their  infancy  directed  to  the  assumption  of  a  defiant 
dramatic  show  that  I  am  not  expected.^ 

It  is  in  vain  for  me  to  represent  to  them,  by  my  humble 
and  conciliatory  manners,  that  I  wish  to  be  liberal.  It  is 
in  vain  for  me  to  represent  to  myself,  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  my  sinking  soul,  that  the  young  ladies  have  a 
pecuniary  interest  in  my  arrival. 

Neither  my  reason  nor  my  feelings  can  make  head 
against  the  cold  glazed  glare  of  eye  with  which  I  am 
assured  that  I  am  not  expected,  and  not  wanted. 

The  solitary  man  among  the  bottles  would  sometimes 
take  pity  on  me,  if  he  dared,  but  he  is  powerless 
against  the  rights  and  mights  of  Woman.  (Of  the 
page  I  make  no  account,  for  he  is  a  boy,  and  therefore 
the  natural  enemy  of  Creation.)  Chilling  fast  in  the 
deadly  tornadoes  to  which  my  upper  and  lower  extremi- 
ties are  exposed,  and  subdued  by  the  moral  disadvantage 
at  which  I  stand',  I'turn  my  disconsolate  eyes  on  the  re- 
freshments that  are  to  restore  me.  I  find  that  I  must 
eith,er  scald  my  throat  by  insanely  ladling  into  it, 
against  time  and  for  no  wager,  brown  hot  water  stiffened 
with  flour  ;  or  I  must  make  myself  flaky  and  sick  with 
Banbury  cake  ;  or  I  must  stuff  into  my  delicate  organi- 
zation a  currant  pincushion  which  I  know  will  swell  in- 
to immeasurable  dimensions  when  it  has  got  there  ;  or  I 
must  extort  from  an  iron-bound  quarry,  with  a  fork,  as 
if  I  were  framing  an  inhospitable  soil,  some  glutinous 
lumps  of  gristle  and  grease  called  pork-pie.  A^'liile  thus 
forlornly  occupied,  I  find  that  the  depressing  banquet 
on  the  table  is,  in  every  phase  of  its  profoundly  unsatis- 


342  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


factory  character,  so  like  the  banquet  at  the  meanest 
and  shabbiest  of  evening  parties,  that  I  begin  to  think  I 
must  have  brought  down  '*  to  supper  the  old  lady  un- 
known, blue  with  cold,  who  is  setting  her  teeth  on  edge 
with  a  cool  orange  at  my  elbow  ;  that  the  pastry-cook 
who  has  compounded  for  the  company  on  the  lowest 
terms  per  head  is  a  fraudulent  bankrupt,  redeeming  his 
contract  with  the  stale  stock  from  his  window  ;  that,  for 
some  unexplained  reason,  the  family  giving  the  party 
have  become  my  mortal  foes,  and  have  given  it  on  pur- 
pose to  aifront  me.  Or  I  fancy  that  I  am  breaking  up 
again  at  the  evening  conversazione  at  school,  charged 
two  and  sixpence  in  the  half-year's  bill  ;  or  breaking 
down  again  at  that  celebrated  evening  party  given  at 
Mrs.  Bogles's  boarding-house  when  I  was  a  boarder 
there,  on  which  occasion  Mrs.  Bogles  was  taken  in  exe- 
cution by  a  branch  of  the  legal  profession  who  got  in  as 
the  harp,  and  was  removed  (with  the  keys  and  sub- 
scribed capital)  to  a  place  of  durance,  half  an  hour  prior 
to  the  commencement  of  the  festivities. 
Take  another  case. 

Mr.  Grazing! ands,  of  the  Midland  Counties,  came  to 
London  by  railroad  one  morning  last  week,  accompanied 
by  the  amiable  and-fascinating  Mrs.  Grazing]  ands.  Mr. 
G.  is  a  gentleman  of  a  comfortable  property,  and  had  a 
little  business  to  transact  at  the  Bank  of  England,  which 
required  the  concurrence  and  signature  of  Mrs.  G.  Their 
business  disposed  of,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grazinglands  viewed 
the  Royal  Exchange,  and  the  exterior  of  St.  Paul's  Cathe- 
dral. The  spirits  of  Mrs.  Grazinglands  then  gradually 
beginning  to  flag,  Mr.  Grazinglands  (who  is  the  tender- 
est  of  husbands)  remarked,  with  sympathy,  Arabella, 
my  dear,  I  fear  you  are  faint."  Mrs.  Grazinglands  re- 
plied, Alexander,  I  am  rather  faint  ;  but  don't  mind 
me,  I  shall  be  better  presently."  Touched  by  the  femi- 
nine meekness  of  this  answer,  Mr.  Grazinglands  looked 
in  at  a  pastry-cook's  window,  hesitating  as  to  the  expe- 
diency of  lunching  at  that  establishment.  He  beheld 
nothing  to  eat  but  butter  in  various  forms,  slightly 
charged  with  jam,  and  languidly  frizzling  over  tepid 
water.  Two  ancient  turtle-shells,  on  which  was  in- 
scribed the  legend  Soups,"  decorated  a  glass  partition 
within,  inclosing  a  stuffy  alcove,  from  which  a  ghastly 
mockery  cf  a  marriage-breakfast,  spread  on  a  rickety 
table,  warned  the  terrified  traveller.  An  oblong  box  of 
stale  and  broken  pastry  at  reduced  prices,  mounted  on  a 
stool,  ornamented  the  doorway  ;  and  two  high  chairs, 
that  looked  as  if  they  were  performing  on  stilts,  embel- 
lished the  counter.  Over  the  whole  a  young  lady  pre- 
sided, whose  gloomy  haughtiness,  as  she  surveyed  the 
street,  announced  a  deep-seated  grievance  against  so- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


34S 


Ciety,  and  an  implacable  determination  to  be  avenged. 
From  a  beetle-haunted  kitchen  below  this  institution, 
fumes  arose,  suggestive  of  a  class  of  soup  which  Mr.  Graz- 
inglands  knew,  from  painful  experience,  enfeebles  the 
mind,  distends  the  stomach,  forces  itself  into  the  complex- 
ion, and  tries  to  ooze  out  at  the  eyes. 

As  he  decided  against  entering,  and  turned  away,  Mrs. 
Grazinglands,  becoming  perceptibly  weaker,  repeated,  "  I 
am  ratner^aint,  Alexander,  but  don't  mind  me."  Urged 
to  new  efforts  by  these  words  of  resignation.  Mr.  Grazing- 
lands  looked  in  at  a  cold  and  floury  baker  s  shop,  where 
utilitarian  buns,  unrelieved  by  a  currant,  consorted  with 
hard  biscuits,  a  stone  filter  of  cold  water,  a  hard  pale  clock, 
and  a  hard  little  old  woman  with  flaxen  hair,  of  an  unde- 
veloped-farinaceous aspect,  as  if  she  had  been  fed  upon 
seeds. 

He  might  have  entered  even  here,  but  for  the  timely  re- 
membrance coming  upon  him  that  Jairing's  was  but  round 
the  corner. 

Now,  Jairing's  being  an  hotel  for  families  and  gentle 
men,  in  high  repute  among  the  midland  counties,  Mr. 
Grazinglands  plucked  up  a  great  spirit  when  he  told 
Mrs.  Grazinglands  she  should  have  a  chop  there.  That 
lady  likewise  felt  that  she  was  going  to  see  Life.  Arriv. 
ing  on  that  gay  and  festive  scene,  they  found  the  second 
waiter,  in  a  flabby  undress,  cleaning  the  windows  of  the 
empty  coffee-room  ;  and  the  first  waiter,  denuded  of  his 
white  tie,  making  up  his  cruets  behind  the  Post-Ofl3ce 
Directory.  The  latter  (who  took  them  in  hand)  was 
greatly  put  out  by  their  patronage,  and  showed  his 
mind  to  be  troubled  by  a  sense  of  the  pressing  necessity 
of  instantly  smuggling  Mrs.  Grazinglands  into  the  ol> 
sourest  corner  of  tlie  building.  This  slighted  lady  (who 
is  the  pride  of  her  division  of  the  county)  was  immedi- 
ately conveyed,  by  several  dark  passages,  and  up  and 
down  several  steps,  into  a  penitential  apartment  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  where  five  invalided  old  plate-warm- 
ers leaned  up  against  one  another  under  a  discarded  old 
melancholy  sideboard,  and  where  the  wintry  leaves  of 
all  the  dining-tables  in  the  house  lay  thick.  Also,  a 
sofa,  of  incomprehensible  form  regarded  from  any  sofano 
point  of  view,  murmured,  **Bed";  while  an  air  of 
mingled  fiuffiness  and  heeltaps  added  "  Second  Waiter's.'' 
Secreted  in  this  dismal  hole,  objects  of  a  mysterious  dis- 
trust and  suspicion,  Mr.  Grazinglands  and  his  charming 
partner  waited  twenty  minutes  for  the  smoke  (for  it 
never  came  to  a  fire),  twenty-five  minutes  for  the  sherry, 
half  an  hour  for  the  tablecloth,  forty  minutes  for  the 
knives  and  forks,  three  quarters  of  an  hour  for  the 
chops,  and  an  hour  for  the  potatoes.  On  settling  the  little 
bill, — which  was  not  much  more  than  the  day's  pay  of  a 
Lieutenant  in  the  navy — Mr.  Grazinglands  took  heart  to 


344 


WORKS  C^F  CHARL.es  DICKENS. 


remonstrate  against  the  genera]  quality  and  cost  of  his 
reception.  To  whom  the  waiter  replied,  substantially, 
that  Jairing*s  made  it  a  merit  to  have  accepted  him  on 
any  terms,  *'For''  added  the  waiter  (unmistakably 
coughing  at  Mrs.  Grazing! and s,  the  pride  of  her  division 
of  the  county),  when  indiwiduals  is  not  staying  in  the 
'Ouse,  their  favours  is  not  as  a  rule  looked  upon  as  mak- 
ing it  worth  Mr.  Jairing's  while  ;  nor  is  it,  indeed,  si 
style  of  business  Mr.  Jairing  wishes.''  Finally,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Grazinglands  passed  out  of  Jairing's  hotel  foi 
Families  and  Gentlemen,  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  de. 
pression,  scorned  by  the  bar,  and  did  not  recover  theii 
self-respect  for  several  days. 

Or  take  another  case.    Take  your  own  case. 

You  are  going  off  by  railroad  from  any  terminus.  You 
have  twenty  minutes  for  dinner  before  you  go.  You 
want  your  dinner,  and,  like  Dr.  Johnson,  sir,  you  like  to 
dine.  You  present  to  your  mind  a  picture  of  the  re- 
freshment-table at  that  terminus.  The  conventional 
shabby  evening-party  supper — accepted  as  the  model  for 
all  termini  and  all  refreshment  stations,  because  it  is  the 
last  repast  known  to  this  state  of  existence  of  which  any 
human  creature  would  partake  but  in  the  direst  extrem- 
ity— sickens  your  contemplation  ;  and  your  words  are 
these  :  cannot  dine  on  stale  sponge  cakes  that  +urn 
to  sand  in  the  mouth.  I  cannot  dine  on  shining  brown 
patties,  composed  of  unknown  animals  within,  and  offer- 
ing to  my  view  the  device  of  an  indigestible  star-fish  in 
leaden  pie-crust  without.  I  cannot  dine  on  a  sandwich 
that  has  long  been  pining  under  an  exhausted  receiver. 
I  cannot  dine  on  barley-sugar.  I  cannot  dine  on  Toffy.'' 
You  repair  to  the  nearest  hotel,  and  arrive  agitated  in 
the  coffee-room. 

It  is  a  most  astonishing  fact  that  the  waiter  is  very 
cold  to  you.  Account  for  it  how  you  may,  smooth  it  over 
how  you  will,  you  cannot  deny  that  he  is  cold  to  you. 
He  is  not  glad  to  see  you,  he  does  not  want  you,  he  would 
much  rather  you  hadn't  come.  He  opposes  to  your 
flushed  condition  an  immovable  composure.  As  if  this 
were  not  enough,  another  waiter,  born,  as  it  would  seem 
expressly  to  look  at  you  in  this  passage  of  your  life, 
stands  at  a  little  distance,  with  his  napkin  under  his  arm 
and  his  hands  folded,  looking  at  you  with  all  his  might. 
You  impress  on  your  waiter  that  you  have  ten  minutes 
for  dinner,  and  he  proposes  that  you  shall  begin  with  a 
bit  of  fish  which  will  be  ready  in  twenty.  That  proposal 
declined,  he  suggests — as  a  neat  originality — "  a  weal  or 
mutton  cutlet."  You  close  with  eith^^r  cutlet,  any  cutlet, 
anything.  Heroes  leisurely  behind  a  door,  and  calls 
down  some  unseen  shaft.  A  ventriloquial  dialogue  en- 
sues, tending  finally  to  the  effect  that  weal  only  is  avail- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  ^45 

Abie  on  the  spur  of  tlie  moment.  You  anxiously  call 
out,  Veal,  then  !  "  Your  waiter,  having  settled  that 
point,  returns  to  array  your  table-cloth  with  a  table  nap- 
kin folded  cocked-hat  wise  (slowly,  for  something  out  of 
window  engages  his  eye),  a  white  wineglass,  a  green 
wineglass,  a  blue  finger-glass,  tumbler,  and  a  powerful 
field  battery  of  fourteen  castors  with  nothing  in  them, 
or,  at  all  events, — which  is  enough  for  your  purpose, — 
with  nothing  in  them  that  will  come  out.  All  this  time 
the  other  waiter  looks  at  you, — with  an  air  of  mental 
comparison  and  curiosity  now,  as  if  it  had  occurred  to 
him  that  you  are  rather  like  his  brother.  Half  your 
time  gone^  and  nothing  come  but  the  jug  of  ale  and 
the  bread,  you  implore  your  waiter  to  **see  after  that 
cutlet,  waiter  ;  pray  do  I "  He  cannot  go  at  once,  for  he 
is  carrying  in  seventeen  pounds  of  American  cheese  for 
you  to  finish  with,  and  a  small  landed  estate  of  celery 
and  water-cresses.  The  other  waiter  changes  his  leg, 
and  takes  a  new  view  of  you  doubtfully  now,  as  if  he 
had  rejected  the  resemblance  to  his  brother,  and  had  be- 
gun to  think  you  more  like  his  aunt  or  his  grandmother. 
Again  you  beseech  your  waiter,  with  pathetic  indigna- 
tion, to  *  *  see  after  that  cutlet  I "  He  steps  out  to  see  after 
it,  and  by  and  by,  when  you  are  going  away  without  it, 
,  comes  back  with  it.  Even  then  he  will  not  take  the 
sham  silver  cover  off  without  a  pause  for  a  flourish,  and 
a  look  at  the  musty  cutlet  as  if  he  were  surprised  to  see 
it, — which  cannot  possibly  be  the  case  ;  he  must  have 
seen  it  so  often  before.  A  sort  of  fur  has  been  produced 
upon  its  surface  by  the  cook's  art,  and,  in  a  sham  silver 
vessel  staggering  on  two  feet  instead  of  three,  is  a  cuta- 
neous kind  of  sauce,  of  brown  pimples  and  pickled  cu- 
cumber. You  order  the  bill,  but  your  waiter  cannot 
bring  your  bill  yet,  because  he  is  bringing,  instead,  three 
flinty-hearted  potatoes  and  two  grim  head  of  broccoli, 
like  the  occasional  ornaments  on  area  railings,  badly 
boiled.  You  know  that  you  will  never  come  to  this 
pass,  any  more  than  to  the  cheese  and  celery,  and  you 
imperatively  demand  your  bill ;  but  it  takes  time  to  get, 
even  when  gone  for,  because  your  waiter  has  to  com- 
municate  with  a  lady  who  lives  behind  a  sash-window, 
in  a  corner,  and  who  appears  to  have  to  refer  to  several 
Ledgers  before  she  can  make  it  out, — as  if  you  had  been 
staying  there  a  year.  You  become  distracted  to  get 
away,  and  the  other  waiter,  once  more  changing  his  leg, 
still  looks  at  you, — but  suspiciously,  now,  as  if  you  had 
begun  to  remind  him  of  the  party  who  took  the  great-coats 
last  winter.  Your  bill  at  last  brought  and  paid,  at  the 
rate  of  sixpence  a  mouthful,  your  waiter  reproachfully 
reminds  you  that  attendance  is  not  charged  for  a  single 
meal.'*  and  you  have  to  search  in  all  your  pockets  for 


346 


WORKS  OP  CnARLES  DICKENS. 


sixpence  more.  He  has  a  worse  opinion  of  you  tlian 
ever,  wlien  you  1  ave  given  it  to  him,  and  lets  you  out 
into  the  street  with  the  air  of  one  saying  to  himself,  as 
you  cannot  doubt  he  is,  I  hope  we  shall  never  see  you 
here  again  !  '* 

Or  take  any  other  of  the  numerous  travelling  instances 
in  which,  with  more  time  at  your  disposal,  you  are,  have 
been,  or  may  be,  equally  ill  served.  Take  the  old-estab- 
lished Bull's  Head,  with  its  old-established  knife-boxes 
on  its  old-established  sideboards  ;  its  old-established  flue 
under  its  old-established  four-post  bedsteads  in  its  old- 
established  airless  rooms,  its  old-established  frowziness 
up-stairs  and  down-stairs,  its  old-established  cookery,  and 
its  old-established  principles  of  plunder.  Count  up  your 
injuries,  in  its  side-dishes  of  ailing  sweetbreads  in  white 
poultices,  of  apothecaries'  powders  in  rice  for  cuiTy,  of  pale 
stewed  bits  of  calf  ineffectually  relying  for  an  adventitious 
interest  on  forcemeat  balls. 

You  have  had  experience  of  the  old-established  Bull's 
Head's  stringy  fowls,  with  lower  extremities  like  wooden 
legs  sticking  up  out  of  the  dish;  of  its  cannabalic  boiled 
mutton,  gushing  horribly  among  its  capers,  when  carved; 
of  its  little  dishes  of  pastry, — roofs  of  spermaceti  ointment 
erected  over  half  an  apple  or  four  gooseberries. 

AVell  for  you  if  have  yet  forgotten  the  old-estab- 
lished Bull's  Head's  fruity  port ;  whose  reputation 
was  gained  solely  by  *.he  old  -  established  price  the 
Bull's  Head  put  upon  it,  and  by  the  old  -  established 
air  with  which  the  Bull's  Head  set  the  gla^^ejj^ 
and  D'Oyleys  on,  and  held  that  Liquid  Gout  to 
the  three-and-sixpenny  wax-candle,  as  if  its  old-estai 
lished  colour  hadn't  come  from  the  dyer's. 

Or  lastly,  take,  to  finish  with,  two  cases  that  we  all 
know  every  day. 

We  all  know  the  new  hotel  near  the  station,  where  it 
is  always  gusty,  going  up  the  lane  which  is  always  mud- 
dy, where  we  are  sure  to  arrive  at  night,  and  where  we 
make  the  gas  start  awfully  when  we  open  the  front  door. 
We  all  know  the  flooring  of  the  passages  and  staircases 
that  is  too  new,  and  the  walls  that  are  too  new,  and  the 
house  that  is  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  mortar.  We  all 
know  the  doors  that  have  cracked,  and  the  cracked  shut- 
ters through  which  we  get  a  glimpse  of  the  disconsolate 
moon.  We  all  know  the  new  people  who  have  come  to 
keep  the  new  hotel,  and  who  wish  they  had  never  como, 
and  who  (inevitable  result)  wish  we  had  never  come.  We 
all  know  how  much  too  scant  and  smooth  and  bright  the 
new  furniture  is,  and  how  it  has  never  settled  down, 
and  cannot  fit  itself  into  right  places,  and  will  get  into 
wrong  places.  We  all  know  how  the  gas,  being  lighted, 
shows  maps  of  Damp  upon  the  Avails.  We  all  know  how 
the  Ghost  of  mortar  passes  into  our  sandwich,  stirs  our 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


347 


negus,  goes  up  to  bed  with  us,  ascends  the  pale  bed- 
room chimney,  and  prevents  the  smoke  from  following. 
We  know  how  a  leg  of  our  chair  comes  off  at  breakfast 
in  the  morning,  and  how  the  dejected  waiter  attributes 
the  accident  to  a  general  greenness  pervading  the  estab 
lishment,  and  informs  us,  in  reply  to  a  local  inquiry, 
that  he  is  thankful  to  say  he  is  an  entire  stranger  in  that 
part  of  the  country,  and  is  going  back  to  his  own  con- 
nection on  Saturday. 

We  all  know,  on  the  other  hand,  the  great  station 
hotel,  belonging  to  the  company  of  proprietors,  which 
has  suddenly  sprung  up  in  the  back  outskirts  of  any 
place  we  like  to  name,  and  where  we  look  out  of  our 
palatial  windows  at  little  back-yards  and  gardens,  old 
summer-houses,  fowl-houses,  pigeon-traps,  and  pigsties. 
We  all  know  this  hotel  in  which  we  can  get  anything 
we  want,  after  its  kind,  for  money ;  but  where  nobody 
is  glad  to  see  us,  or  sorry  to  see  us,  or  minds  (our  bill 
paid)  whether  we  come  or  go,  or  how,  or  when,  or  why, 
or  cares  about  us.  We  all  know  this  bote],  where  we 
have  no  individuality,  but  put  ourselves  into  the  general 
post,  as  it  were,  and  are  sorted  and  disposed  of  accord- 
ing to  our  division.  We  all  know  that  we  can  get  on 
very  well  indeed  at  such  a  place,  but  still  not  perfectly 
well  ;  and  this  may  be  because  the  place  is  largely 
wholesale,  and  there  is  a  lingering  personal  retail  in- 
terest within  us  that  asks  to  be  satisfied. 

To  sum  up.  My  uncommercial  travelling  has  not  yet 
brought  me  to  the  conclusion  that  we  are  close  to  per- 
fection in  these  matters.  And  just  as  I  do  not  believe 
that  the  end  of  the  world  will  ever  be  near  at  hand,  so 
long  as  any  of  the  very  tiresome  and  arrogant  people  who 
constantly  predict  that  catastrophe  are  left  in  it,  so  I 
shall  have  small  faith  in  the  Hotel  Millennium,  while 
any  of  the  uncomfortable  superstitions  I  have  glanced  at 
remain  in  existence. 


VII. 

Travelling  Abroad. 

1  GOT  into  the  travelling  chariot, — it  was  of  Germai 
make,  roomy,  heavy,  and  unvarnished, — I  got  into  the 
travelling-chariot,  pulled  up  the  steps  after  me,  shut 
myself  in  with  a  smart  bang  of  the  door,  and  gave  the 
word,  "  Go  on  I " 

Immediately  all  that  W.  and  S.  W.  division  of  London 
began  to  slide  away  at  a  pace  so  lively  that  I  was  over 
the  river,  and  past  the  old  Kent  Road,  and  out  on  Black- 
heath,  and  even  ascending  Shooter's  Hill,  before  I  had  had 
time  to  look  about  me  in  the  carnage,  like  a  collected 
traveller. 


;j48  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I  had  two  ample  Imperials  on  the  roof,  other  fitted  stor- 
age for  luggage  in  front,  and  other  up  behind  ;  I  had  a  net 
for  books  overhead,  great  pockets  to  all  the  windows,  a 
leathern  pouch  or  two  hung  up  for  odds  and  ends,  and  a 
reading-lamp  fixed  in  the  back  of  the  chariot  in  case  I 
should  be  benighted. 

I  was  amply  provided  in  all  respects,  and  had  no  idea 
where  I  was  going  (which  was  delightful),  except  that  1 
was  going  abroad. 

So  smooth  was  the  old  high-road,  and  so  fresh  werd 
the  horses,  and  so  fast  went  I,  that  it  was  midway  be- 
tween (jfravesend  hud  Rochester,  and  the  widening  river 
was  bearing  the  ships,  white-sailed  or  black-smoked,  out 
to  sea,  when  I  noticed  by  the  wayside,  a  very  queer 
small  boy. 

Halloa  !  "  said  I,  to  the  very  queer  small  boy,  "  where 
do  you  live?" 

At  Chatham,"  says  he. 

What  do  you  do  there?"  says  I. 

I  go  to  school,"  says  he. 
I  took  him  up  in  a  moment,  and  we  went  on.  Pres- 
antly  the  very  queer  small  boy  says,  *'  This  is  Gadshill 
we  are  coming  to,  where  Falstaff  went  out  to  rob  those 
travellers,  and  ran  away." 

"  You  know  something  about  Falstaff,  eh  ?"  said  I. 

All  about  him,"  said  the  very  queer  small  boy.  I 
am  old  (I  am  nine),  and  I  read  all  sorts  of  books.  But 
do  let  us  stop  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  look  at  the  house 
there,  if  you  please  !  " 

You  admire  that  house  ?  "  said  I. 

Bless  you,  sir,"  said  the  very  queer  small  boy, 
"  when  I  was  not  more  than  half  as  old  as  nine,  it  used 
to  be  a  treat  for  me  to  be  brought  to  look  at  it.  And  now 
I  am  nine  I  come  by  myself  to  look  at  it.  And  ever 
since  I  can  recollect,  my  father,  seeing  me  so  fond  of  it, 
has  often  said  to  me,  *  If  you  were  to  be  very  persevering, 
and  were  to  work  hard,  you  might  some  day  come  to  live 
in  it.'  Though  that's  impossible  ! "  said  the  very  queer 
small  boy,  drawing  a  low  breath,  and  now  staring  at  the 
house  out  of  window  with  all  his  might. 

I  was  rather  amazed  to  be  told  this  by  the  very  queer 
small  boy  ;  for  that  house  happens  to  be  house,  and 
1  have  reasons  to  believe  that  what  he  said  was  true. 

Well  !  I  made  no  halt  there,  and  I  soon  dropped  the 
very  queer  small  boy  and  went  on.  Over  the  road  where 
the  old  Romans  used  to  march,  over  the  road  where  the 
old  Canterbury  pilgrims  used  to  go,  over  the  road  where 
the  travelling  trains  of  the  old  imperious  priests  and 
prinoes  used  to  jingle  on  horseback  between  the  conti- 
nent and  this  Island  through  the  mud  and  water,  over 
the  road  where  Shakespeare  hummed  to  himself,  Blow, 
blow,  thou  winter  wind,"  as  he  sat  in  the  saddle  at  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


349 


gate  of  tlie  inn-yard  noticing  the  carriers  ;  all  among  the 
cherry  orchards,  apple  orchards,  cornfields,  and  hop- 
gardens ;  so  went  I,  by  Canterbury  to  Dover.  There  the 
sea  was  tumbling  in,  with  deep  sounds,  after  dark,  an<J 
tbe  revolving  French  light  on  Cape  Grinez  was  seen 
regularly  bursting  out  and  becoming  obscured,  as  if  the 
head  of  a  gigantic  light-keeper  in  an  anxious  state  of 
mind  were  interposed  every  half  minute,  to  look  how  it 
was  burning. 

Early  in  the  morning  I  was  on  the  deck  of  the  steam- 
packet,  and  we  were  aiming  at  the  bar  in  the  usual  in- 
tolerable manner,  and  the  bar  was  aiming  at  us  in  the 
usual  intolerable  manner,  and  the  bar  got  by  far  the  best 
of  it,  and  we  got  by  far  the  worst, — all  in  the  usual  in- 
tolerable manner. 

But  when  I  was  clear  of  the  Custom  House  on  the 
other  side,  and  when  I  began  to  make  the  dust  fly  on  the 
thirsty  French  roads,  and  when  the  twigsome  trees  by 
the  wayside  (which,  I  suppose,  never  will  grow  leafy, 
for  they  never  did)  guarded  here  and  there  a  dusty  sol- 
dier, or  field-labourer,  baking  on  a  heap  of  broken 
stones,  sound  asleep  in  a  fiction  of  shade,  I  began  to  re- 
cover my  travelling  spirits.  Coming  upon  the  breaker 
of  the  broken  stones,  in  a  hard,  hot,  shining  hat,  on 
which  the  sun  played  at  a  distance  as  on  a  burning-glass, 
I  felt  that  now  indeed  I  was  in  the  dear  old  France  of 
my  affections.  I  should  have  known  it,  without  the 
well-remembered  bottle  of  rough  ordinary  wine,  the  cold 
roast  fowl,  the  loaf,  and  the  pinch  of  salt,  on  which  I 
lunched  with  unspeakable  satisfaction  from  one  of  the 
stutfed  pockets  of  the  chariot. 

I  must  have  fallen  asleep  after  lunch,  for  when  a 
bright  face  looked  in  at  the  window,  I  started  and  said  : — 
Good  God,  Louis,  I  dreamed  you  were  dead  !  " 

My  cheerful  servant  laughed,  and  answered, — 

**Me?    Not  at  all,  sir." 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  wake  !  What  are  we  doing,  Louis  ?  " 
We  go  to  take  relay  of  horses.    Will  you  walk  up 
the  hill 

Certainly/' 

Welcome  the  old  French  hill,  with  the  old  French 
lunatic  (not  in  the  most  distant  degree  related  to 
Sterne's  Maria)  living  in  a  thatched  dog-kennel  half-way 
up,  and  flying  out  with  his  crutch  and  his  big  head  and 
extended  nightcap  to  be  -beforehand  with  the  old  men 
and  women  exhibiting  crippled  children,  and  with  the 
children  exhibiting  old  men  and  women,  ugly  and  blind, 
who  always  seemed  by  resurrectionary  process  to  be  re- 
called out  of  the  elements  for  the  sudden  peopling  of 
the  solitude  I 

"  It  is  well,**  said  I,  scattering  among  them  what  small 


350  WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


coin  I  had  ;  here  comes  Louis,  and  I  am  quite  roused 
from  my  nap." 

We  journeyed  on  again,  and  I  welcomed  every  new 
assurance  that  France  stood  where  I  had  left  it.  There 
were  the  posting-houses,  with  their  archways,  dirty 
stable-yards  and  clean  postmasters'  wives,  bright  women 
of  business,  looking  on  at  the  putting-to  of  the  horses  ; 
there  were  the  postilions  counting  what  money  they  got 
into  their  hats,  and  never  making  enough  of  it ;  there 
were  the  standard  population  of  gray  horses  of  Flanders 
descent,  invariably  biting  one  another  when  they  got  a 
chance ;  there  were  the  fleecy  sheepskins,  looped  on  over 
their  uniforms  by  the  postilions,  like  bibbed  aprons, 
when  it  blew  and  rained  ;  there  were  their  jack  boots, 
and  their  cracking  whips  ;  there  were  the  cathedrals 
that  I  got  out  to  see,  as  under  some  cruel  bondage,  in  no 
wise  desiring  to  see  them  ;  there  were  the  little  towns 
that  appeared  to  have  no  reason  for  being  towns,  since 
most  of  their  houses  were  to  let,  and  nobody  could  be 
induced  to  look  at  them  except  the  people  who  couldn't 
let  them,  and  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  look  at  them 
all  day.  I  lay  a  night  upon  the  road,  and  enjoyed 
delectable  cookery  of  potatoes,  and  some  other  sensible 
things,  adoption  of  which  at  home  would  inevitably  be 
shown  to  be  fraught  with  ruin,  somehow  or  other,  to  that 
rickety  national  blessing,  the  British  farmer  ;  and  at  last 
I  was  rattled,  like  a  single  pill  in  a  box,  over  leagues  of 
stones,  until — madly  cracking,  plunging,  and  flourishing 
two  gray  tails  about — I  made  my  triumphal  entry  into 
Paris. 

At  Paris  I  took  an  upper  apartment  for  a  few  days  in 
one  of  the  hotels  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli ;  my  front  windows 
looking  into  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  (where  the  prin- 
cipal difference  between  the  nurse-maids  and  the  flowers 
seemed  to  be  that  the  former  were  locomotive  and  the 
latter  not)  ;  my  back  windows  looking  at  all  the  other 
back  windows  in  the  hotel,  and  deep  down  into  a  paved 
yard,  where  my  German  chariot  had  retired  under  a 
tight-fitting  archway,  to  all  appearance,  for  life,  and 
where  bells  rang  all  day  without  anybody's  minding 
them  but  certain  chamberlains  with  feather  brooms  and 
green  baize  caps,  who  here  and  there  leaned  out  of  some 
high  window  placidly  looking  down,  and  where  neat 
waiters  with  trays  on  their  left  shoulders  passed  and  re 
passed  from  morning  to  night. 

Whenever  I  am  at  Paris,  I  am  dragged  by  invisible 
force  into  the  Morgue.  I  never  want  to  go  there,  but 
am  always  pulled  there.  One  Christmas  day,  when  I 
would  rather  have  been  anywhere  else,  I  was  attracted 
in  to  see  an  old  gray  man  lying  all  alone  on  his  cold  bed. 
With  a  tap  of  water  turned  on  over  his  gray  hair,  and 


TUE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  351 


running,  drip,  drip,  drip,  down  his  wretched  face  until 
it  got  to  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  where  it  took  a  turn, 
and  made  him  look  sly.  One  New  Year's  morning  (by 
the  same  token,  the  sun  was  shining  outside,  and  there 
was  a  mountebank,  balancing  a  feather  on  his  nose, 
within  a  yard  of  the  gate),  I  was  pulled  in  again  to  look 
at  a  flaxen-haired  boy  of  eighteen  with  a  heart  hanging 
on  his  breast, — From  his  mother,"  was  engraven  on  it, 
— who  had  come  into  the  net  across  the  river,  with  a  bul- 
let-wound in  his  fair  forehead,  and  his  hands  cut  with  a 
knife,  but  whence  or  how  was  a  blank  mystery.  This 
time  I  was  forced  into  the  same  dread  place  to  see  a 
large  dark  man  whose  disfigurement  by  water  was  in  a 
frightful  manner  comic,  and  whose  expression  was  that 
of  a  prize-fighter  who  had  closed  his  eyelids  under  a 
heavy  blow,  but  was  going  immediately  to  open  them, 
shake  his  head,  and  come  up  smiling."  O,  what  this 
large  dark  man  cost  me  in  that  bright  city  ! 

It  is  very  hot  weather,  and  he  was  none  the  better  for 
that,  and  I  was  much  the  worse.  Indeed,  a  very  neat 
and  pleasant  little  woman,  with  the  key  of  her  lodging 
on  her  forefinger,  who  had  been  showing  him  to  her  lit- 
tle girl,  while  she  and  the  child  ate  sweatmeats,  observed 
•  monsieur  looking  poorly  as  we  came  out  together,  and 
asked  monsieur,  with  her  wondering  little  eyebrows 
prettily  raised,  if  there  were  anything  the  matter. 
Faintly  replying  in  the  negative,  monsieur  crossed  the 
road  to  a  wine-shop,  got  some  brandy,  and  resolved  to 
freshen  himself  with  a  dip  in  the  great  floating  bath  on 
Lhe  river. 

The  bath  was  crowded  in  the  usual  airy  manner  by  a 
male  population  in  striped  drawers  of  various  gay  colours, 
who  walked  up  and  down  arm  in  arm,  drank  coffee, 
smoked  cigars,  sat  at  little  tables,  conversed  politely 
with  the  damsels  who  dispensed  the  towels,  and  every 
now  and  then  pitched  themselves  in  the  river  head-fore- 
most, and  came  out  again  to  repeat  this  social  routine.  I 
made  haste  to  participate  in  the  water  part  of  the  enter- 
tainments, and  was  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  a  delightful 
bath,  when  all  in  a  moment  I  was  seized  with  an  unrea- 
sonable idea  that  the  large  dark  body  was  floating  straight 
at  me. 

I  was  out  of  the  river  and  dressing  instantly.  In  the 
shock  I  hed  taken  some  water  into  my  mouth,  and  it 
turned  me  sick,  for  I  fancied  that  the  contamination  of 
the  creature  was  in  it.  I  had  got  back  to  my  cool  dark- 
ened room  in  the  hotel,  and  was  lying  on  a  sofa  there, 
before  I  began  to  reason  with  myself. 

Of  course,  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  large  dark 
creature  was  stone  dead,  and  that  I  should  no  more  come 
upon  him  out  of  the  place  where  I  had  seen  him  dead 


352  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tiian  I  should  come  upon  the  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  in 
an  entirely  new  situation.  What  troublad  me  was  the 
picture  of  the  creature  ;  and  that  had  so  curiously  and 
strongly  painted  itself  upon  my  brain,  that  I  could  not 
get  rid  of  it  until  it  was  worn  out. 

I  noticed  the  peculiarities  of  this  possession,  while  it 
was  a  real  discomfort  to  me.  That  very  day,  at  dinner, 
some  morsel  on  my  plate  looked  like  a  piece  of  him,  and 
I  was  glad  to  get  up  and  go  out.  Later  in  the  evening, 
I  was  walking  along  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  when  I  saw 
a  bill  at  a  public  room  there,  announcing  small-sword 
exercise,  broadsword  exercise,  wrestling,  and  other  such 
feats.  I  went  in,  and,  some  of  the  sword  play  being 
very  skilful,  remained.  A  specimen  of  our  own  national 
sport.  The  British  Boaxe,  was  announced  to  be  given 
at  the  close  of  the  evening.  In  an  evil  hour  I  determined 
to  wait  for  this  Boaxe,  as  became  a  Briton.  It  was  a 
clumsy  specimen  (executed  by  two  English  grooms  out 
of  place),  but  one  of  the  combatants,  receiving  a  straight 
right-hander  with  the  glove  between  his  eyes,  did  exact- 
ly what  the  large  dark  creature  in  the  Morgue  had  seem- 
ed going  to  do, — and  finished  me  for  that  night. 

There  was  rather  a  sickly  smell  (not  at  all  an  unusual 
fragrance  in  Paris)  in  the  little  anteroom  of  my  apart- 
ment at  the  hotel.  The  large  dark  creature  in  the 
Morgue  was  by  no  direct  experience  associated  with  my 
sense  of  smell,  because,  when  I  came  to  the  knowledge 
of  him,  he  lay  behind  a  wall  of  thick  plate-glass  as  good 
as  a  wall  of  steel  or  marble,  for  that  matter.  Yet  the 
whiff  of  the  room  never  failed  to  reproduce  him.  What 
was  more  curious  was  the  capriciousness  with  which  his 
portrait  seem  to  light  itself  up  in  my  mind  elsewhere.  I 
might  be  walking  in  the  Palais  Royal,  lazily  enjoying  the 
shop  windows,  and  might  be  regaling  myself  with  one 
of  the  ready-made  clothes  shops  that  are  set  out  there. 
My  eyes,  wandering  over  impossible-waisted  dressing- 
^owns  and  luminous  waistcoats,  would  fall  upon  the 
master,  or  the  shopman,  or  even  the  very  dummy  at  the 
door,  and  would  sugga^?t  to  me,  Something  like  him  !  " 
—and  instantly  I  was  sickened  again. 

This  would  happen  at  the  theatre  in  the  same  man- 
ner. Often  it  would  happen  in  the  street,  when  I  cer- 
tainly was  not  looking  for  the  likeness,  and  when  prob- 
ably there  was  no  likeness  there.  It  was  not  because 
the  creature  was  dead  that  I  was  so  haunted,  because  I 
know  that  I  might  have  been  (and  I  know  it  because  I 
have  been)  equally  attended  by  the  image  of  a  living 
aversion.  This  lasted  about  a  week.  The  picture  did 
Uot  fade  by  degrees,  in  the  sense  that  it  became  a  whit 
iess  forcible  and  distinct,  but  in  the  sense  that  it  ob- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLER. 


353 


truded  itself  less  and  less  frequently.  The  experience 
may  be  worth  considering  by  some  who  have  the  care  of 
children.  It  would  be  difficult  to  overstate  the  intensity 
and  accuracy  of  an  intelligent  child's  observation.  At 
that  impressible  time  of  life,  it  must  sometimes  produce 
a  fixed  impression.  If  the  fixed  impression  be  of  an  ob- 
ject terrible  to  the  child,  it  will  be  (for  want  of  reason- 
ing upon)  inseparable  from  great  fear.  Force  the  child 
at  such  a  time,  be  Spartan  with  it,  send  it  into  the  dark 
against  its  will,  leave  it  in  a  lonely  bedroom  against  its 
will,  and  you  had  better  murder  it. 

On  a  bright  morning  I  rattled  away  from  Paris  in  the 
German  chariot,  and  left  the  large  dark  creature  behind 
me  for  good.  I  ought  to  confess,  though,  that  I  had 
been  drawn  back  to  the  Morgue,  after  he  was  put  under- 
ground, to  look  at  his  clothes,  and  that  I  found  them 
frightfully  like  him, — particularly  his  boots.  However, 
I  rattled  av»^ay  for  Switzerland,  looking  forward  and  not 
backward,  and  so  we  parted  company. 

Welcome  again  the  long,  long  spell  of  France,  with 
the  queer  country  inns,  full  of  vases  of  flowers  and  clocks, 
in  the  dull  little  towns,  and  vvith  the  little  population  not 
at  all  dull  on  the  little  Boulevard  in  the  evening,  under 
the  little  trees  !  Welcome,  Monsieur  the  Cure,  walking 
alone  in  the  early  morning  a  short  way  out  of  the  town, 
reading  that  eternal  Breviary  of  yours,  which  surely  might 
be  almost  read  without  book  by  this  time  !  Welcome, 
Monsieur  the  Cure,  later  in  the  day,  jolting  through  the 
highway  dust  (as  if  you  had  already  ascended  to  the 
cloudy  region),  in  a  very  big-headed  cabriolet,  with  the 
dried  mud  of  a  dozen  winters  on  it.  Welcome  again, 
Monsieur  the  Cure,  as  we  exchange  salutations  ;  you, 
straightening  your  back  to  look  at  the  German  chariot, 
while  picking  in  your  little  village  garden  a  vegetable 
or  two  for  the  day's  soup  :  I,  looking  out  of  the  German 
chariot  window  in  that  delicious  traveller's  trance  which 
knows  no  cares,  no  yesterdays,  no  to-morrows,  nothing 
but  the  passing  objects  and  the  passing  scents  and 
sounds  !  And  so  I  came,  in  due  course  of  delight,  tc 
Strasburg,  where* I  passed  a  wet  Sunday  evening  at  ar 
window,  while  an  idle  trifle  of  a  vaudeville  was  played 
for  me  at  the  opposite  house. 

How  such  a  large  house  came  to  have  only  three  peo 
pie  living  in  it,  wa.s  its  own  affair.  There  were  at  least 
a  score  of  windows  in  its  high  roof  alone  ;  how  many  in 
its  grotesque  front,  I  soon  gave  up  counting.  The  owner 
was  a  shopkeeper,  by  name  Straudenheim  ;  by  trade — 1 
couldn't  make  out  what  by  trade,  for  he  had  forborne  to 
write  that  up,  and  his  shop  was  shut. 

At  first,  as  I  looked  at  Straudenheim's,  through  the 
steadily  falling  rain,  I  set  him  up  in  business  in  the 
LL  Vol.  18 


354  WORKS  OF  CHARLIES  DICKENS. 


goose-liver  line.  But  inspection  of  Straudenteina,  who 
became  visible  at  a  window  on  the  second  floor,  convinced 
me  that  there  was  something  more  precious  than  liver  in 
the  case.  He  wore  a  black  velvet  skull-cap,  and  looked 
usurious  and  rich.  A  large-lipped,  pear-nosed  old  man, 
with  white  hair  and  keen  eyes,  though  near-sighted.  He 
was  writing  at  a  desk,  was  Straudenheim,  and  ever  and 
again  left  olf  writing,  put  his  pen  in  his  mouth,  and 
went  through  actions  with  his  right  hand,  like  a  man 
steadying  piles  of  cash.  Five-franc  pieces,  Strauden- 
heim, or  golden  Napoleons  ?  A  jeweller,  Straudenheim, 
a  dealer  in  money,  a  diamond  merchant,  or  what  ? 

Below  Straudenheim,  at  a  window  on  the  first  fioor,  sat 
his  housekeeper, — far  from  young,  but  of  a  comely  pres- 
ence, suggestive  of  a  well-matured  foot  and  ankle.  She 
was  cheerily  dressed,  had  a  fan  in  her  hand,  and  wore 
large  gold  ear-rings  and  a  large  gold  cross.  She  would 
have  been  out  holiday -making  (as  I  settled  it)  but  for 
the  pestilent  rain.  Strasburg  had  given  up  holiday^ 
making  for  that  once  as  a  bad  job,  because  the  rain  was 
jerking  in  gushes  out  of  the  old  rcof-spouts,  and  running 
in  a  brook  down  the  middle  of  the  street.  The  house- 
keeperj  her  arms  folded  on  her  bosom,  and  her  fan  tap- 
ping her  chin,  was  bright  and  smiling  at  her  open  win- 
dow, but  otherwise  Straudenheim's  house-front  was  very 
dreary.  The  housekeeper's  was  the  only  open  window 
in  it ;  Straudenheim  kept  himself  close,  though  it  was  a 
sultry  evening  when  air  is  pleasant,  and  though  the  rain 
had  brought  into  the  town  that  vague,  refreshing  smell 
of  grass  which  rain  does  bring  in  the  summer-time. 

The  dim  appearance  of  a  man  at  Straudenheim's  shoul 
(for  inspired  me  with  a  misgiving  that  somebody  had 
come  to  murder  that  flourishing  merchant  for  the  wealth 
with  which*  I  had  handsomely  endowed  him  ;  the  rather 
as  it  was  an  excited  man,  lean  and  long  of  figure,  and 
evidently  stealthy  of  foot.  But  he  conferred  with 
Straudenheim,  instead  of  doing  him  a  mortal  injury, 
and  then  they  both  softly  opened  the  other  window 
of  that  room, — which  was  im.mediately  over  the  house- 
keeper's,— and  tried  to  see  her  by  looking  down.  And 
my  opinion  of  Straudenheim  was  much  lowered  when  I 
saw  that  eminent  citizen  spit  out  of  window,  clearly  with 
the  hope  of  spitting  on  the  housekeeper. 

The  unconscious  housekeeper  fanned  herself,  tossed 
iher  head,  and  laughed.  Though  unconscious  of  Strauden- 
heim, she  was  conscious  of  somebody  else, — of  me  ? — 
there  was  nobody  else. 

After  leaning  so  far  out  of  window,  that  I  confidently 
expected  to  see  their  heels  tilt  up,  Straudenheim  and 
the  lean  man  drew  their  heads  in  and  shut  the  window. 
Presently  the  house  door  secretly  opened,  and  they  slow* 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  355 


ly  and  spitefully  crept  fortli  into  the  pouring  ram.  They 
were  coming  over  to  me  (I  thought)  to  demand  satisfac- 
tion for  my  looking  at  the  housekeeper,  when  they 
plunged  into  a  recess  in  the  architecture  under  ray  win- 
dow, and  dragged  out  the  puniest  of  little  soldiers,  be- 
girt with  the  most  innocent  of  little  swords.  The  tall, 
glazed  head-dress  of  this  warrior  Straudenhoim  instantly 
knocked  off,  and  out  of  it  fell  two  sugar-sticks  and  three 
or  four  large  lumps  of  sugar. 

The  warrior  made  no  effort  to  recover  his  property  or 
to  pick  up  his  shako,  but  1  oked  with  an  expression  of 
attention  at  Straudenheim  when  he  kicked  him  five 
times,  and  also  at  the  lean  man  when  lie  ki'  ked  him  five 
times,  and  again  at  Straudenheim  when  he  tore  the 
breast  of  his  (the  warri  r*s)  little  coat  open,  and  shook 
all  his  ten  fingers  in  his  face,  as  if  they  were  ten  thou- 
sand. When  these  utrages  had  ^  3en  committed,  Straud- 
•  enheim  and  his  man  went  to  the  house  again,  and 
barred  the  door.  A  wonderful  circumstance  was,  that 
the  housekeeper,  who  saw  it  all  (and  who  could  have 
taken  six  such  warriors  to  her  buxom  bosom  at  once), 
only  fanned  herself,  and  laughed  as  she  had  laughed 
before,  and  seemed  to  have  no  opinion  about  it,  one  way 
or  other. 

But  the  chief  effect  of  the  drama  was  the  remarkable 
vengeance  taken  by  the  little  warrior.  Left  alone  in 
the  rain,  he  picked  up  his  shako ;  put  it  on,  all  wet  and 
dirty  as  it  was  ;  retired  into  a  court  of  which  Strauden- 
heim's  house  formed  the  corner  ;  wheeled  about  ;  and, 
bringing  his  two  forefingers  close  to  the  top  of  his  nose, 
rubbed  them  ovar  one  another,  crosswise,  in  derision, 
defiance,  and  contempt  of  Straudenheim.  Although 
Straudenheim  could  not  possibly  be  supposed  to  be  con- 
scious of  this  strange  proceeding,  it  so  inflated  and  com- 
forted the  little  warrior's  soul,  that  twice  he  went  away, 
and  twice  came  back  into  the  court  to  repeat  i^,  as  though 
it  must  goad  his  enemy  to  madness.  Not  only  that,  but 
he  afterwards  came  back  with  two  other  small  warriors, 
and  they  all  three  did  it  together.  Not  only  that, — as  I 
live  to  tell  the  tale  ! — but,  just  as  it  was  falling  quite 
dark,  the  three  came  back,  bringing  with  them  a  huge 
bearded  Sapper,  whom  they  moved  by  recital  of  the  orig- 
inal wrong  to  go  through  the  sa^me  performance,  with 
the  same  complete  absence  of  all  possible  knowledge  of 
it  on  the  part  of  Straudenheim.  And  then  they  all  went 
away,  arm  in  arm,  singing. 

I  went  away,  too,  in  the  German  chariot,  at  sunrise, 
Gind  rattled  on,  day  after  day,  like  one  in  a  sweet  dream  ; 
with  so  many  clear  little  bells  on  the  harness  of  the 
horses,  that  the  nursery  rhyme  about  Banbury  Cross  and 
the  venerable  lady  who  rode  in  state  there  was  always 


356  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  my  ears.  And  now  I  came  to  the  land  of  wooden 
houses,  innocent  cakes,  thin  butter  soup,  and  spotless 
little  inn  bedrooms  with  a  family  likeness  to  Dairies. 
And  now  the  Swiss  marksmen  were  forever  rifle-shoot- 
ing at  marks  across  gorges,  so  exceedingly  near  my  ear, 
that  I  felt  like  a  new  Gesler  in  a  Canton  of  Tells,  and 
went  in  highly  deserved  danger  of  my  tyrannical  life. 
The  prizes  at  these  shootings  were  watches,  smart  hand- 
kerchiefs, hats,  spoons,  and  (above  all)  tea-trays  ;  and 
at  these  contests  I  came  upon  a  more  than  usually  ac- 
mplisbed  and  amiable  countryman  of  my  own,  who 
had  shot  himself  deaf  in  wholie  years  of  competition, 
and  had  won  so  many  tea-trays  that  he  went  about  the 
country  with  his  carriage  full  of  them,  like  a  glorified 
Cheap-Jack. 

In  the  mountain  country  into  which  I  had  now  travel- 
led, a  yoke  of  oxen  were  sometimes  hooked  on  before 
the  post-horses,  and  I  went  iumbenng  up,  up,  up, 
through  mist  and  rain,  with  the  roar  of  falling  water  for 
change  of  music.  Of  a  sudden,  mist  and  rain  would 
clear  away,  and  I  would  come  down  into  picturesque 
little  towns  with  gleaming  spires  and  odd  towers ;  and 
would  stroll  afoot  into  market-places  in  steep-winding 
streets,  where  a  hundred  women  in  bodices  sold  eggs  and 
honey,  butter  and  fruit,  and  suckled  their  children  as 
they  sat  by  their  clean  baskets,  and  had  such  enormous 
goitres  (or  glandular  swellings  in  the  throat)  that  it  be« 
came  a  science  to  know  where  the  nurse  ended  and  the 
child  began.  About  this  time  I  deserted  my  German 
chariot  for  the  back  of  a  mule  (in  colour  and  consistency 
so  very  like  a  dusty  old  hair  trunk  I  once  had  at  school, 
that  I  half  expected  to  see  my  initials  in  brass-headed 
nails  on  his  backbone),  and  went  up  a  thousand  rugged 
ways,  and  looked  down  at  a  thousand  woods  of  fir  and 
pine,  and  would  on  the  whole  have  preferred  my  mule's 
keeping  a  little  nearer  to  the  inside,  and  not  usually  travel- 
ling with  a  hoof  or  two  over  the  precipice, — though  much 
consoled  by  explanation  that  this  was  to  be  attributed 
to  his  great  sagacity,  by  reason  of  his  carrying  broad 
loads  of  wood  at  other  times,  and  not  being  clear  but 
that  I  myself  belonged  to  that  station  of  life,  and  requir- 
ed as  much  room  as  they.  He  brought  me  safely,  in  his 
own  wise  way,  among  the  passes  of  the  Alps,  and  here  I 
enjoyed  a  dozen  climates  a  day  ;  being  now  (like  Don 
Quixote  on  the  back  of  the  wooden  horse)  in  the  region 
of  wind,  now  in  the  region  of  fire,  now  in  the  region  of 
unmelting  ice  and  snow.  Here  I  passed  over  trembling 
domes  of  ice,  beneath  which  the  cataract  was  roaring  ; 
and  here  was  received  under  arches  of  icicles,  of  unspeak- 
able beauty,  and  here  the  sweet  air  was  so  bracing  and 
eo  light,  that  at  halting-times  I  rolled  in  the  snow  when 


THE  XJNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  357 


I  saw  my  mule  do  it,  thinking  that  he  must  know  best. 
At  this  part  of  the  journey  we  would  come,  at  midday, 
into  half  an  hour's  thaw,  when  the  rough  mountain  inn 
would  be  found  on  an  island  of  deep  mud  in  a  sea  of 
snow,  while  the  baiting  strings  of  mules,  and  the  carts 
full  of  casks  and  balos^  which  had  been  in  an  Arctic  con- 
dition a  mile  off,  wouM  steam  again.  By  such  ways  and 
means  I  would  come  to  the  cluster  of  chalets  where  I 
had  to  turn  out  of  the  track  to  see  the  waterfall ;  and 
then,  uttering  a  howl  like  a  young  giant,  on  espying  a 
traveller — in  other  words  something  to  eat — coming  up 
the  steep,  the  idiot  lying  on  the  wood  pile,  who  sunned 
himself  and  nursed  his  goitre,  would  rouse  the  woman- 
guide  within  the  hut,  who  would  stream  out  hastily, 
throwing  her  child  over  one  of  her  shoulders  and  her  goi- 
tre over  the  other,  as  she  came  along.  I  slept  at  religious 
houses,  and  bleak  refuges  of  many  kinds,  on  this  jour- 
ney ;  and  by  the  stove  at  night  heard  stories  of  travellers 
who  had  perished,  within  call,  in  wreaths  and  drifts  of 
snow.  One  night  the  stove  within,  and  the  cold  outside, 
awakened  childish  associations  long  forgotten  ;  and  I 
dreamed  I  was  in,  Russia, — the  identical  serf  out  of  & 
picture-book  I  had  before  I  could  read  it  for  myself, — 
and  that  I  was  going  to  be  knouted  by  a  noble  personage 
in  a  fur  cap,  boots,  and  ear-rings,  who,  I  think,  must 
have  come  out  of  some  melodrama. 

Commend  me  to  the  beautiful  waters  among  these 
mountains  !  Though  I  was  not  of  their  mind,  they 
being  inveterately  bent  on  getting  down  into  the  level 
country,  and  I  ardently  desiring  to  linger  where  I  was. 
What  desperate  leaps  they  took  !  what  dark  abysses  they 
plunged  into  I  what  rocks  they  wore  away  !  what  echoes 
they  invoked !  In  one  part  where  I  went  they  were 
pressed  into  the  service  of  carrying  wood  down  to  be 
burnt  next  winter,  as  costly  fuel,  in  Italy.  But  their 
fierce,  savage  nature  was  not  to  be  easily  constrained,  and 
they  fought  with  every  limb  of  the  wood  ;  whirling  it 
round  and  round,  stripping  its  bark  away,  dashing  it 
against  pointed  corners,  driving  it  out  of  the  course,  and 
roaring  and  flying  at  the  peasants  who  steered  it  back, 
again  from  the  bank  with  long  stout  poles.  Alas  !  con- 
current streams  of  time  and  water  carried  me  down  fast 
Bind  I  came,  on  an  exquisitely  clear  day,  to  the  Lausanne 
shore  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  where*  I  stood  looking  at 
the  bright  blue  water,  the  flushed  white  mountains  oppo- 
site, and  the  boats  at  my  feet  with  their  farled  Mediter- 
ranean sails,  showing  like  enormous  magnifications  of 
this  goose-quill  pen  that  is  now  in  my  hand. 

— The  sky  became  overcast  without  any  notice  ;  a  wind 
very  like  the  March  east  wind  of  England  blew  across 
me  ;  and  a  voice  said,  **  How  do  you  like  it  ?  Will  it  do  ?  *' 


858  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


'  I  had  merely  shut  myself,  for  half  a  minute,  in  a  Ger- 
man travelling-chariot  that  stood  for  sale  in  the  Carriage 
Department  of  the  London  Pantechnicon.  I  had  a  com- 
mission to  buy  it  for  a  friend  who  was  going  abroad  ;  and 
the  look  and  manner  of  the  chariot,  as  I  tried  the  cush- 
ions and  the  springs,  brought  all  these  hints  of  travelling 
remembrance  before  me. 

"  It  will  do  very  well,"  said  I,  rather  sorrowfully,  as  I 
got  out  at  the  other  door,  and  shut  the  carriage  up. 


VIII. 

The  Great  Tasmania's  Cargo. 

I  TRAVEL  constantly  up  and  down  a  certain  line  of 
railway  that  has  a  terminus  in  London.  It  is  the  railway 
for  a  large  military  depot,  and  for  other  large  barracks. 
To  the  best  of  my  serious  relief,  I  have  never  been  on 
that  railway  by  daylight  without  seeing  some  handcuffed 
deserters  in  the  train. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  such  an  institution  as 
our  English  army  should  have  many  bad  and  troublesome 
characters  in  it.  But  this  is  a  reason  for,  and  not  against, 
its  being  made  as  acceptable  as  possible  to  well-disposed 
men  of  decent  behaviour.  Such  men  are  assuredly  not 
tempted  into  the  ranks  by  the  beastly  inversion  of  natural 
laws,  and  the  compulsion  to  live  in  worse  than  swinish 
foulness.  Accordingly,  when  any  such  Circumlocutional 
embellishments  of  the  soldier's  condition  have  of  late 
been  brought  to  notice,  we  civilians,  seated  in  outer  dark- 
ness cheerfully  meditating  on  an  Income  Tax,  have  con 
sidered  the  matter  as  being  our  business,  and  have  shown 
a  tendency  to  declare  that  we  would  rather  not  have  it 
misregulated,  if  such  declaration  may,  without  violence 
to  the  Church  Catechism,  be  hinted  to  those  who  are  put 
in  authority  over  us. 

Any  animated  description  of  a  modern  battle,  any  private 
soldier's  letter  published  in  the  newspapers,  any  page  of 
the  records  of  the  Victoria  Cross,  will  show  that  in  the 
ranks  of  the  army  there  exists,  under  all  advantages,  as 
fine  a  sense  of  duty  as  is  to  be  found  in  any  station  on 
earth.  Who  doubtc  that  if  we  all  did  our  duty  as  faith- 
fully as  the  soldier  does  his,  this  world  would  be  a  better 
place  ?  There  may  be  greater  difficulties  in  our  way  than 
in  the  soldier's.  Not  disputed.  But  let  us  at  least  do 
our  duty  tov/ards  Mm. 

I  had  got  back  again  to  that  rich  and  beautiful  port 
where  I  had  looked  after  Mercantile  Jack,  and  I  was  walk- 
ing up  a  hill  there,  on  a  wild  March  morning.    My  conver 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLEK. 


859 


fiatlon  with  my  official  friend  Pangloss,  by  whom  I  was  aft. 
cidentally  accompanied,  took  this  direction  as  we  took  the 
uphill  direction,  because  the  object  of  my  uncommercial 
journey  was  to  see  some  discharged  soldiers  who  had  re- 
cently come  home  from  India.  There  were  men  of  Have- 
Lock's  among  them  ;  there  were  men  who  had  been  in 
many  of  the  great  battles  of  the  great  Indian  Campaign 
among  them ;  and  I  was  curious  to  note  what  our  dis- 
charged soldiers  looked  like,  when  they  were  done  with. 

I  was  not  the  less  interested  (as  I  mentioned  to  my 
official  friend  Pangloss)  because  these  men  had  claimed  to 
be  discharged  when  their  right  to  be  discharged  was  not 
admitted:  They  had  behaved  with  unblemished  fidelity 
and  bravery  ;  but  a  change  of  circumstances  had  arisen, 
which,  as  they  considered,  put  an  end  to  their  compact, 
amd  entitled  them  to  enter  on  a  new  one.  Their  demand 
had  been  blunderingly  resisted  by  the  authorities  in  In- 
dia ;  but  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  men  were  not  far 
wrong,  inasmuch  as  the  bungle  had  ended  in  their  being 
sent  home  discharged,  in  pursuance  of  orders  from  home. 
^There  was  an  immense  waste  of  money,  of  course.) 

Under  these  circumstances. — thought  I,  as  I  walked 
up  the  hill,  on  which  I  accidentally  encountered  my  ofEcial 
friend, — under  these  circumstances  of  the  men  having 
successfully  opposed  themselves  to  the  Pagoda  Depart, 
ment  of  that  great  Circumlocution  office  on  which  the  sun 
never  sets  and  the  light  of  reason  never  rises,  the  Pagoda 
Department  will  have  been  particularly  careful  of  the 
national  honour.  It  will  have  shown  these  men,  in  the 
scrupulous  good  faith,  not  to  say  the  generosity,  of  its 
dealing  with  them,  that  great  national  authorities  can 
have  no  small  retaliations  and  revenges.  It  will  have 
made  every  provision  for  their  health  on  the  passage 
home,  and  will  have  landed  them,  restored  from  their 
campaigning  fatigues  by  a  sea-voyage,  pure  air,  sound 
food,  and  good  medicines.  And  I  pleased  myself  with 
dwelling  beforehand  on  the  great  accounts  of  their  per- 
sonal treatment  which  these  men  would  carry  into  their 
various  towns  and  villages,  and  on  the  increasing  popu- 
larity of  the  service  that  would  insensibly  follow.  I  al- 
most began  to  hope  that  the  hitherto  never-failing  desert- 
ers on  my  railroad  would  by  and  by  become  a  phenomenon. 

In  this  agreeable  frame  of  mind  I  entered  the  work- 
house of  Liverpool. — For  the  cultivation  of  laurels  in  a 
sandy  soil  had  brought  the  soldiers  in  question  to  tTiat 
abode  of  Glory. 

Before  going  into  their  wards  to  visit  them,  I  inquired 
how  they  had  made  their  triumphant  entry  there.  They 
had  been  brought  through  the  rain  in  carts,  it  seemed, 
from  the  landing-place  to  the  gate,  and  had  then  been 
carried  up-stairs  on  the  backs  of  paupers.    Their  groans 


360 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  pains  during  the  performance  of  this  glorious  pageant 
had  been  so  distressing  as  to  bring  tears  into  the  eyes  of 
spectators  but  too  well  accustomed  to  scenes  of  sulfering. 
The  men  were  so  dreadfully  cold  that  those  who  could 
get  near  the  fires  were  hard  to  be  restrained  from  thrust- 
ing their  feet  in  among  the  blazing  coals.  They  were  so 
horribly  reduced  that  they  were  awful  to  look  upon. 
Racked  with  dysentery  and  blackened  with  scurvy,  one 
hundred  and  forty  wretched  soldiers  had  been  revived 
with  brandy,  and  laid  in  bed. 

My  oflScial  friend  Pangloss  is  lineally  descended  from 
a  learned  doctor  of  that  name,  who  was  once  tutor  to 
Candide,  an  ingenious  young  gentleman  of  some  celeb- 
rity. In  his  personal  character  he  is  as  humane  and 
worthy  a  gentleman  as  any  I  know  ;  in  his  official  capac= 
ity  he  unfortunately  preaches  the  doctrines  of  his  re- 
nowned ancestor  by  demonstrating,  on  all  occasions,  that 
we  live  in  the  best  of  all  possible  official  worlds. 

In  the  name  of  humanity,''  said  I,  **  how  did  the 
men  fall  into  this  deplorable  state  ?  Was  the  ship  well 
found  in  stores?'* 

**  I  am  not  here  to  asseverate  that  I  know  the  fact  of 
my  own  knowledge,"  answered  Pangloss  ;  but  I  have 
grounds'  for  asserting  that  the  stores  were  the  best  of  all 
possible  stores.*' 

A  medical  officer  laid  before  us  a  handful  of  rotten 
biscuit,  and  a  handful  of  split  peas.  The  biscuit  was  a 
honeycombed  heap  of  maggots,  and  the  excrement  of 
maggots.  The  peas  were  even  harder  than  this  filth.  A 
similar  handful  had  been  experimentally  boiled  six 
hours,  and  had  shown  no  signs  of  softening.  These 
were  the  stores  on  which  the  soldiers  had  been  fed. 
The  beef — "  I  began,  when  Pangloss  cut  me  short. 
Was  the  best  of  all  possible  beef,"  said  he. 

But  behold,  there  was  laid  before  us  certain  evidence 
given  at  the  Coroner's  Inquest,  holden  on  some  of  the 
men  (who  had  obstinately  died  of  their  treatment),  and 
from  that  evidence  it  appeared  that  the  beef  was  the 
worst  of  all  possible  beef. 

Then  I  lay  my  hand  upon  my  heart,  and  take  my 
stand,"  said  Pangloss,  "  by  the  pork,  which  was  the  best 
of  all  possible  pork." 

**  But  look  at  this  food  before  our  eyes,  if  one  may  so 
misuse  the  word,"  said  I.  "  Would  any  Inspector  who 
did  his  duty  pass  such  an  abomination  ?  " 

'*It  ought  not  to  have  been  passed,"  Pangloss  ad- 
mitted. 

Then  the  authorities  out  there — "  I  began,  when 
Pangloss  cut  me  short  again. 

**  There  would  certainly  seem  to  have  been  something 
wrong  somewhere,"  said  he  ;     but  I  am  prepared  to 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  361 


prove  that  the  authorities  out  there  are  tJie  Oest  of  all 
possible  authorities. " 

I  never  heard'  of  any  impeachecT  public  authority,  in 
aiy  life,  who  was  not  the  best  public  authority  in  exist- 
ence. 

"We  are  told  of  these  unfortunate  men  being  laid 
low  by  scurvy,"  said  I.  Since  lime-juice  has  been 
regularly  stored  and  served  out  in  our  navy,  surely  that 
disease,  which  used  to  devastate  it,  has  almost  disap- 
peared ?    Was  there  lime-juice  aboard  this  transport  ?  " 

My  official  friend  was  beginning,  The  best  of  all  possi- 
ble— "  when  an  inconvenient  medical  forefinger  pointed 
out  another  passage  in  the  evidence,  from  which  it  ap- 
peared that  the  lime-juice  had  been  bad  too.  Not  to 
mention  that  the  vinegar  had  been  bad  too,  the  vegeta- 
tes bad  too,  the  cooking  accommodation  insufficient  (if 
there  had  been  anything  worth  mentioning  to  cook),  tbe 
water  supply  exceedingly  inadequate,  and  the  beer  sour. 

*'Then  the  men,"  said  Pangloss,  a  little  irritated, 
"were  the  worst  of  all  possible  men." 
In  what  respect  ?"  I  asked. 

"  O,  habitual  drunkards,"  said  Pangloss. 

But  again  the  same  incorrigible  medical  forefinger 
pointed  out  another  passage  in  the  evidence,  showing 
that  the  dead  men  had  been  examined  after  death,  and 
that  they,  at  least,  could  not  possibly  have  been  habitual 
drunkards,  because  the  organs  within  them  which  must 
have  shown  traces  of  that  habit  were  perfectly  sound. 

And  besides,"  said  the  three  doctors  present,  one 
and  all,  habitual  drunkards,  brought  as  low  as  these 
men  have  been,  could  not  recover  under  care  and  food, 
as  the  great  majority  of  these  men  are  recovering.  They 
would  not  have  strength  of  constitution  to  do  it." 

"Reckless  and  improvident  dogs,  then,"  said  Pan- 
gloss.      Always  are, — nine  times  out  of  ten." 

I  turned  to  the  master  of  the  workhouse,  and  asked 
him  whether  the  men  had  any  money. 

Money?"  said  he.  I  have  in  my  iron  safe  nearly 
four  hundred  pounds  of  theirs ;  the  agents  have  nearly 
a  hundred  pounds  more  ;  and  many  of  them  have  left 
money  in  Indian  banks  besides.*' 

'*Ha!"  said  I  to  myself,  as  we  went  up-stairs,  ''this 
is  not  the  best  of  all  possible  stories,  I  doubt ! " 

We  went  into  a  large  ward  containing  some  twenty  or 
five-and-twenty  beds.  We  went  into  several  such  wards, 
one  after  another.  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  indicate  wha{ 
a  shocking  sight  I  saw  in  them  without  frightening  the 
reader  from  the  perusal  of  these  lines,  and  defeating  my 
object  of  making  it  known. 

O  the  sunken  eyes  that  turned  to  me  as  I  walked  be^ 
tween  the  rows  of  beds,  or — worse  still — that  glazedly 


363 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS 


looked  at  the  white  ceiling,  and  saw  nothing  and  cared 
for  nothing  !  Here  lay  the  skeleton  of  a  man,  so  lightly 
covered  with  a  thin,  unwholesome  skin,  that  not  a  bonf 
in  the  anatomy  was  clothed,  and  I  could  clasp  the  arm 
above  the  elbow  in  my  finger  and  thumb.  Here  lay  a 
man  with  the  black  scurvy  eating  his  legs  away,  his 
gums  gone,  and  his  teeth  all  gaunt  and  bare.  This  bed 
was  empty  because  gangrene  had  set  in,  and  the  patient 
had  died  but  yesterday.  That  bed  was  a  hopeless  one, 
because  its  occupant  was  sinking  fast,  and  could  only  be 
roused  to  turn  the  poor  pinched  mask  of  face  upon  the 
pillow,  with  a  feeble  moan.  The  awful  thinness  of  the 
fallen  cheeks,  the  awful  brightness  of  the  deep-set  eyes, 
the  lips  of  lead,  the  hands  of  ivory,  the  recumbent  hu- 
man images  lying  in  the  shadow  of  death  with  a  kind  of 
solemn  twilight  on  them,  like  the  sixty  who  had  died 
aboard  the  ship  and  were  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 

0  Pangloss,  God  forgive  you  I 

In  one  bed  lay  a  man  whose  life  had  been  saved  (as  it 
was  hoped)  by  deep  incisions  in  the  feet  and  legs.  While 

1  was  speaking  to  him,  a  nurse  came  up  to  change  the 
poultices  which  this  operation  had  rendered  necessary, 
and  I  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  it  was  not  well  to 
turn  away  merely  to  spare  myself.  He  was  sorely  wasted 
and  keenly  susceptible,  but  the  efforts  he  made  to  subdue 
any  expression  of  impatience  or  suffering  were  quite 
heroic.  It  was  easy  to  see  in  the  shrinking  of  the  figure, 
and  the  drawing  of  the  bed-clothes  over  the  head,  how 
acute  the  endurance  was,  and  it  made  me  shrink  too,  as 
if  /were  in  pain  ;  but  when  the  new  bandages  were  on, 
and  the  poor  feet  were  composed  again,  he  made  an 
apology  for  himself  (though  he  had  not  uttered  a  word), 
and  said,  plaintively,  *'I  am  so  tender  and  weak,  you 
see,  sir  ! "  Neither  from  him,  nor  from  any  one  sufforer 
of  the  whole  ghastly  number,  did  I  hear  a  complaint. 
Of  thankfulness  for  present  solicitude  and  care,  I  heard 
much  ;  of  complaint,  not  a  word. 

I  think  I  could  have  recognized  in  the  dismallest  skele- 
ton there  the  ghost  of  a  soldier.  Something  of  the  old 
air  was  still  latent  in  the  palest  shadow  of  life  I  talked 
to.  One  emaciated  creature,  in  the  strictest  literality 
worn  to  the  bone,  lay  stretched  on  his  back,  looking  so 
like  death  that  I  asked  one  of  the  doctors  if  he  were  not 
dying,  or  dead.  A  few  kind  words  from  the  Doctor  in 
his  ear,  and  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  smiled, — looked,  in 
a  moment,  as  if  he  would  have  made  a  salute,  if  he 
could.  We  shall  pull  him  through,  please  God,"  said 
the  Doctor.  **Plase  God,  surr,  and  thank  ye,"  said  the 
patient.  **  You  are  much  better  to-day, — are  you  not?'* 
said  the  Doctor.  **Plase  God,  surr;  *tis  the  slape  I 
want,  surr ;  'tis  my  breathin'  makes  the  nights  so  long." 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


363 


•*He  is  a  careful  fellow  this,  you  must  know,"  said  the 
Doctor,  cheerfully  ;  "it  was  raining  hard  when  they  put 
him  in  the  open  cart  to  bring  him  here,  lie  had  the 
presence  of  mind  to  ask  to  have  a  sovereign  caken  out  of 
his  pocket  that  he  had  there,  and  a  cab  engaged.  Prob- 
ably it  saved  his  life.'*  The  patient  rattled  out  the 
skeleton  of  a  laugh,  and  said,  proud  of  the  story,  'Deed, 
surr,  an  open  cairt  was  a  comical  means  o'  bringin'  a 
dyin'  man  here,  and  a  clever  way  to  kill  him. "  You  might 
have  sworn  to  him  for  a  soldier  when  he  said  it. 

One  thing  had  perplexed  me  very  much  in  going  from 
bed  to  bed, — a  very  significant  and  cruel  thing.  I  could 
find  no  young  man  but  one.  He  had  attracted  my  notice  by 
having  got  up  and  dressed  himself  in  his  soldier's  jacket 
and  trousers,  with  the  intention  of  silting  by  the  fire  ; 
but  he  had  found  himself  too  weak,  and  had  crept  back 
to*  his  bed,  and  laid  himself  down  on  the  outside  of  it. 
I  could  have  pronounced  him,  alone,  to  be  a  young  man 
aged  by  famine  and  sickness.  As  we  were  standing  by 
the  Irish  soldier's  bed,  I  mentioned  my  perplexity  to  the 
Doctor.  He  took  a  board  with  an  inscription  on  it  from 
the  head  of  the  Irishman's  bed,  and  askod  mc  what  age 
I  supposed  that  man  to  be.  I  had  observed  him  with 
attention  while  talking  to  him,  and  answered  confidently, 
"Fifty."  The  Doctor,  with  a  pitying  glance  at  the  pa- 
tient, who  had  dropped  into  a  stupor  again,  put  the  board 
back,  and  said,  ''Twenty-four." 

All  the  arrangements  of  the  wards  were  excellent. 
They  could  not  have  been  more  humane,  sympathizing, 
gentle,  attentive,  or  wholesome.  The  owners  of  the 
ship,  too,  had  done  all  they  could  liberally.  There 
were  bright  fires  in  every  room,  an.  the  convales- 
cent men  were  sitting  round  them,  reading  various 
papers  and  periodicals.  1 1  k  t'  liberty  of  inviting  my 
official  friend  Pangloss  tc  look  at  those  convalescent 
men,  and  to  tell  me  whether  their  faces  and  bearing  were 
or  were  not  generally  the  faces  and  bearing  of  steady, 
respectable  soldiers.  The  master  of  the  workhouse, 
overhearing  me,  said  he  had  had  a  pretty  large  experi- 
ence of  troops,  and  that  better  conducted  men  than 
these  he  had  never  had  to  do  with.  They  wero  always  (he 
added)  as  we  saw  them.  And  of  us  visitors  (I  add)  they 
knew  nothing  whatever  except  that  we  were  there. 

It  was  audacious  in  me,  but  I  took  another  liberty  with 
Pangloss.  Prefacing  it  with  the  observation,  that,  of 
course,  I  knew  beforehand  that  there  w^as  not  the  faint- 
est desire  any%vhere  to  hush  up  any  part  of  this  dreadful 
business,  and  that  the  Inquest  was  the  fairest  of  all 
possible  Inquests,  I  besought  four  things  of  Pangloss. 
Firstly,  to  observe  that  the  Inquest  was  not  held  in  that 
ylacCj  but  at  some  distance  off.    Secondly,  to  look  round 


364  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


upon  those  helpless  spectres  in  their  beds.  Thirdly,  to 
remember  that  the  witnesses  produced  from  among  them 
before  that  Inquest  could  not  have  been  selected  be- 
cause they  were  the  men  who  had  the  most  to  tell  it, 
but  because  they  happened  to  be  in  a  slate  admitting  of 
their  safe  removal.  Fourthly,  to  say  whether  the  coro- 
ner  and  jury  could  have  come  there,  to  those  pillows, 
and  taken  a  little  evidence.  My  official  friend  declined 
to  commit  himself  to  a  reply. 

There  was  a  sergeant  reading  in  one  of  the  fireside 
groups.  As  he  was  a  man  of  very  intelligent  counte- 
nance, and  a  J  I  have  a  great  respect  for  non-commis- 
sioned officers  as  a  class,  I  sat  down  on  the  nearest  bed 
to  have  some  talk  with  him.  (It  was  the  bed  of  one  of 
the  grisliest  of  the  poor  skeletons,  and  he  died  soon 
afterwards.) 

I  was  glad  to  see,  in  the  evidence  of  an  officer  at  the 
inquest,  sergeant,  that  he  never  saw  men  behave  better 
on  board  ship  than  these  men. " 

They  did  behave  very  well,  sir." 

I  was  glad  to  see,  too,  that  every  man  had  a  ham- 
mock. " 

The  sergeant  gravely  shook  his  head. 

There  must  be  some  mistake,  sir.  The  men  of  my 
3wn  mess  had  no  hammocks.  There  were  not  hammocks 
enough  on  board,  and  the  men  of  the  two  next  messes 
laid  hold  of  hammocks  for  themselves  as  soon  as  they 
got  on  board,  and  squeezed  my  men  out,  as  I  may  say." 
"  Had  the  squeezed-out  men  none,  then  ?  " 

None,  sir.  As  men  died,  their  hammocks  were  used 
by  other  men  who  wanted  hammocks  ;  but  many  men 
had  none  at  all." 

Then  you  don't  agree  with  the  evidence  on  that 
point?" 

Certainly  not,  sir.  A  man  can't,  when  he  knows  to 
the  contrary. " 

Did  any  of  the  men  sell  their  bedding  for  drink?  " 

There  is  some  mistake  on  that  point  too,  sir.  Men 
were  under  the  impression — I  knew  it  for  a  fact  at  the 
time — that  it  was  not  allowed  to  take  blankets  or  bed- 
ding on  board,  and  so  men  who  had  things  of  that  sort 
came  to  sell  them  purposely." 

Did  any  of  the  men  sell  their  clothes  for  drink  ?  " 

They  did,  sir."    (I  believe  there  never  was  a  more 
truthful  witness  than  the  sergeant.    He  had  no  inclina- 
tion to  make  out  a  case.) 
"Many?" 

Some,  sir  "  (considering  the  question).  "  Soldier-like. 
They  had  been  long  marching  in  the  rainy  season,  by 
bad  roads, — no  roads  at  all,  in  short, — and  when  they 
got  to  Calcutta,  men  turned  to  and  drank  before  taking 
a  last  look  at  it.    Soldier- like." 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


365 


*'  Do  you  see  any  men  in  this  ward,  for  example,  who 
sold  clothes  for  drink  at  that  time  ? 

The  sergeant's  wan  eye,  happily  just  beginning  to  re- 
kindle with  health,  travelled  around  the  place,  and  came 
back  to  me.       Certainly,  sir." 

The  marching  to  Calcutta  in  the  rainy  season  must 
have  been  severe  ?  " 

It  was  very  severe,  sir." 

"  Yet,  what  with  the  rest  and  the  sea  air,  I  should 
have  thought  that  the  men  (even  the  men  who  got 
drunk)  would  have  soon  begun  to  recover  on  board 
ship  ?  " 

So  they  might ;  but  the  bad  food  told  upon  them, 
and  when  we  got  into  a  cold  latitude,  it  began  to  tell 
more,  and  the  men  dropped." 

The  sick  had  a  general  disinclination  for  food,  I  am 
*  told,  sergeant  ?  " 

**  Have  you  seen  the  food,  sir?" 
Some  of  it." 

Have  you  seen  the  state  of  their  mouths,  sir?" 

If  the  sergeant,  who  was  a  man  of  a  few  orderly  words, 
had  spoken  the  amount  of  this  volume,  he  could  not 
have  settled  that  question  better.  I  believe  the  sick 
could  as  soon  have  eaten  the  ship  as  the  ship's  provisions. 

I  took  the  additional  liberty  with  my  friend  Pangloss, 
when  I  had  left  the  sergeant  with  good  wishes,  of  asking 
Pangloss  whether  he  had  ever  heard  of  biscuit  getting 
drunk  and  bartering  its  nutritious  qualities  for  putrefac- 
tion and  vermin  ;  of  peas  becoming  hardened  in  liquor  ; 
of  hammocks  drinking  themselves  off  the  face  of  the 
earth  ;  of  lime-juice,  vegetables,  vinegar,  cooking-accom- 
modation, water  supply,  and  beer,  all  taking  to  drinking 
together  and  going  to  ruin.  If  not  (I  asked  him),  what 
did  he  say  in  defence  of  the  officers  condemned  by  the 
Coroner's  Jury,  who,  by  signing  the  General  Inspection 
report  relative  to  the  ship  Great  Tasmania  chartered  for 
these  troops,  had  deliberately  asserted  all  that  bad  and 
poisonous  dunghill  refuse  to  be  good  and  wholesome 
food?"  My  official  friend  replied,  that  it  was  a  remark- 
able fact,  that  whereas  some  officers  were  only  positively 
good,  and  other  officers  only  comparatively  better,  those 
particular  officers  were  superlatively  the  very  best  of  all 
possible  officers. 

My  hand' and  my  heart  fail  me  in  writing  my  record  ol 
this  journey.  The  spectacle  of  the  soldiers  in  the  hos- 
pital-beds of  that  Liverpool  workhouse  (a  very  good 
workhouse,  indeed,  be  it  understood)  was  so  shocking, 
and  so  shameful,  th^it  as  an  Englishman  I  blush  to  re- 
member it.  It  would  have  been  simply  unbearable  at 
the  time,  but  for  the  consideration  and  pity  with  which 
they  were  soothed  in  their  sufferings. 


366  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


No  punishment  that  our  inefficient  laws  provide  is 
worthy  of  the  name  when  set  against  the  guilt  of  this 
transaction.  But  if  the  memory  of  it  die  out  unavenged, 
and  if  it  do  not  result  in  the  inexorable  dismissal  and 
disgrace  of  those  who  are  responsible  for  it,  their  escape 
will  be  infamous  to  the  government  (no  matter  of  what 
party)  that  so  neglects  its  duty,  and  infamous  to  the 
;iation  that  tamely  suffers  such  intolerable  wrong  to  be 
lone  in  its  name. 


IX. 

aty  of  London  Churches. 

If  the  confession  that  I  have  often  travelled  from  this 
Covent  Garden  lodging  of  mine  on  Sundays  should  give 
offence  to  those  who  never  travel  on  Sundays,  they  will 
be  satisfied  (I  hope)  by  my  adding  that  the  journeys  in 
question  were  made  to  churches. 

Not  that  I  have  any  curiosity  to  hear  powerful 
preachers. 

Time  was,  when  I  was  dragged  by  the  hair  of  my  head, 
as  one  may  say,  to  hear  too  many.  On  Summer  evenings, 
when  every  flower  and  tree  and  bird  might  have  better 
addressed  my  soft  young  heart,  I  have  in  my  day  been 
caught  in  the  palm  of  a  female  hand  by  the  crown,  have 
been  violently  scrubbed  from  the  neck  to  the  roots  of  the 
hair  as  a  purification  for  the  Temple,  and  have  then 
been  carried  off,  highly  charged  with  saponaceous  elec- 
tricity, to  be  steamed  like  a  potato  in  the  unventilated 
breath  of  the  powerful  Boanerges  Boiler  and  his  congre- 
gation, until  what  small  mind  I  had  was  quite  steamed 
out  of  me.  In  which  pitiable  plight  I  have  been  haled 
out  of  the  place  of  meeting,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
exercises,  and  catechised  respecting  Boanerges  Boiler, 
his  fifthly,  his  sixthly,  and  his  seventhly,  until  I  have 
regarded  that  reverend  person  in  the  light  of  a  most 
dismal  and  oppressive  Charade.  Time  was,  when  I  was 
carried  off  to  platform  assemblages  at  which  no  human, 
child,  whether  of  wrath  or  grace,  could  possibly  keep 
its  eyes  open,  and  when  I  felt  the  fatal  sleep  stealing, 
stealing  over  me,  and  when  I  gradually  heard  the  orator 
in  possession  spinning  and  humming  like  a  great  cop, 
until  he  rolled,  collapsed,  and  tumbled  over,  and  I  dis- 
covered, to  my  burning  shame  and  fear,  that  as  to  that 
last  stage  it  was  not  he,  but  I.  I  have  sat  under  Boan- 
erges when  he  has  specifically  addressed  himself  to  us, 
— us,  the  infants, — and  at  this  present  writing  I  hear  his 
lumbering  jocularity  (which  never  amused  us,  though 
we  basely  pretended  that  it  did)^  and  I  behold  his  big 


TEE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  367 


round  face,  and  1  look  up  the  inside  of  his  outstretched 
coat-sleeve,  as  if  it  were  a  telescope  with  the  stopper  on, 
and  1  hate  him  with  an  unwholesome  hatred  for  two  hours. 
Through  such  means  did  it  come  to  pass  that  I  knew  the 
powerful  preacher  from  beginning  to  end,  all  over  and 
all  through,  while  I  was  very  young,  and  that  I  left  him 
behind  at  an  early  period  of  life.  Peace  be  with  him  ! 
More  peace  than  he  brought  to  me  ! 

Now,  I  have  heard  many  preachers  since  that  time, — 
not  powerful ;  merely  Christian,  unaffected,  and  rever- 
ential,— and  I  have  had  many  such  preachers  on  my  roll 
of  friends.  But  it  was  not  to  hear  these,  any  more  than 
the  powerful  class,  that  I  made  my  Sunday  journeys. 
They  were  journeys  of  curiosity  to  the  numerous 
churches  in  the  City  of  London.  It  came  into  my  head 
one  day,  here  had  I  been  cultivating  a  familiarity  with 
&11  the  churches  of  Rome,  and  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
insides  of  the  old  churches  of  London  !  This  befell  on 
a  Sunday  morning.  I  began  my  expeditions  that  very 
same  day,  and  they  lasted  me  a  year. 

I  never  wanted  to  know  the  names  of  the  churches  to 
which  I  went,  and  to  this  hour  I  am  profoundly  ignorant 
in  that  particular  of  at  least  nine-tenths  of  them. 
Indeed,  saving  that  I  know  the  church  of  old  Gower's 
tomb  (he  lies  in  effigy  with  his  head  upon  his  books)  to 
be  the  church  of  Saint  Saviour's,  South wark  ;  and  the 
church  of  Milton's  tomb  to  be  the  Church  of  Cripple- 
gate  ;  and  the  church  on  Cornhill  with  the  great  golden 
keys  to  be  the  church  of  Saint  Peter  ;  1  doubt  if  I  could 
pass  a  competitive  examination  in  any  of  the  names. 
No  question  did  I  ever  ask  of  living  creature  concerning 
these  church eS;  and  no  answer  to  any  antiquarian  ques- 
tion on  the  subject  that  I  ever  put  to  books  shall  harass 
the  reader's  soul.  A  full  half  of  my  pleasure  in  them 
arose  out  of  their  mystery  ;  mysterious  I  found  them  ; 
mysterious  they  shall  remain  for  me. 

Where  shall  I  begin  my  round  of  hidden  and  forgotten 
old  churches  in  the  City  of  London  ? 

It  is  twenty  minutes  short  of  eleven  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  when  I  stroll  down  one  of  the  many  narrow 
hilly  streets  in  the  City  that  tend  due  south  to  the 
Thames.  It  is  my  first  experiment,  and  I  have  come  to 
the  region  of  Whittington  in  an  omnibus,  and  we  have 
put  down  a  fierce-eyed,  spare  old  woman,  whose  slate- 
coloured  gown  smells  of  herbs,  and  who  walked  up 
Aldergate  Street  to  some  chapel  where  she  comforts 
herself  with  brimstone  doctrine,  I  warrant.  We  have 
also  put  down  a  stouter  and  sweeter  old  lady,  with  a 
pretty  large  prayer-book  in  an  unfolded  pocket-handker- 
chief, who  got  out  at  a  corner  of  a  court  near  Stationers' 
Hall,  and  who,  I  think,  must  go  to  church  there  because 


368  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


slie  is  the  widow  of  some  deceased  old  Company's 
Beadle.  The  rest  of  our  freight  were  mere  chance 
pleasure-seekers  and  rural  walkers,  and  went  on  to  the 
Blackwall  Railway.  So  many  bells  are  ringing,  when  I 
stand  undecided  at  a  street  corner,  that  every  sheep  in 
the  ecclesiastical  fold  might  be  a  bell-wether.  The  dis- 
cordance is  fearful.  My  state  of  indecision  is  referable 
to,  and  about  equally  divisible  among,  four  great 
churches,  which  are  all  within  sight  and  sound, — all 
within  the  space  of  a  few  square  yards.  As  I  stand  at 
the  street  corner,  I  don't  see  as  many  as  four  people  at 
once  going  to  church,  though  I  see  as  many  as  four 
churches  with  their  steeples  clamouring  for  people.  I 
choose  my  church,  and  go  up  the  flight  of  steps  to  the 
great  entrance  in  the  tower.  A  mouldy  tower  within, 
and  like  a  neglected  wash-house.  A  rope  comes  through 
the  beamed  roof,  and  a  man  in  the  corner  pulls  it  and 
clashes  the  bell, — a  whity-brown  man,  whose  clothes 
were  once  black, — a  man  with  flue  on  him,  and  cobweb. 
He  stares  at  me,  wondering  how  I  come  there,  and  I 
stare  at  him,  wondering  how  he  comes  there.  Through 
a  screen  of  wood  and  glass  I  peep  into  the  dim  church. 
About  twenty  people  are  discernible  waiting  to  begin. 
Christening  would  seem  to  have  faded  out  of  this  church 
long  ago,  for  the  font  has  the  dust  of  desuetude  thick 
upon  it,  and  its  wooden  cover  (shaped  like  an  old- 
fashioned  tureen-cover)  looks  as  if  it  wouldn't  come  off, 
upon  requirement.  I  perceive  the  altar  to  be  rickety, 
and  the  Commandments  damp.  Entering  after  this  sur- 
vey, I  jostle  the  clergyman  in  his  canonicals,  who  is 
entering,  too,  from  a  dark  lane  behind  a  pew  of  state 
with  curtains,  where  nobody  sits.  The  pew  is  orna- 
mented with  four  blue  wands,  once  carried  by  four 
somebodies,  I  suppose,  before  somebody  else,  but  which 
there  is  nobody  now  to  hold  or  receive  honour  from.  I 
open  the  door  of  a  family  pew,  and  shut  myself  in  ;  if  I 
could  occupy  twenty  family  pews  at  Dnce,  I  might  have 
them.  The  clerk,  a  brisk  young  man  (how  does  he  come 
here  ?)  glancing  at  me  knowingly,  as  who  should  say. 

You  have  done  it  now  ;  you  must  stop."  Organ  plays. 
Organ-loft  is  in  a  small  gallery  across  the  church  ; 
gallery  congregation,  two  girls.  I  wonder  within  myself 
what  will  happen  when  we  are  required  to  sing. 

There  is  a  pale  heap  of  books  in  the  corner  of  my  pew, 
and  while  the  organ,  which  is  hoarse  and  sleepy^  plays 
in  such  fashion  that  I  can  hear  more  of  the  rusty  work- 
ing of  the  stops  than  of  any  music,  I  look  at  the  books, 
which  are  mostly  bound  in  faded  baize  and  stuff.  They 
belonged,  in  1754,  to  the  Dowgate  family  ;  and  who 
were  they?  Jane  Comport  must  have  married  Young 
Dowgate,  and  come  into  the  family  that  way  ;  Young 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  369 


Dowgate  was  courting  Jane  Comport  when  he  gave  her 
her  prayer-book,  and  recorded  the  presentation  in  the 
Hy-leaf  ;  if  Jane  were  fond  of  Young  Dowgate,  why  did 
she  die  and  leave  the  book  here  ?  Perhaps  at  the  rickety 
altar,  and  before  the  damp  Commandments,  she,  Com- 
port, had  taken  him,  Dowgate,  in  a  flush  of  youthful 
hope  and  joy,  and  perhaps  it  had  not  turned  out  in  the 
long  run  as  great  a  success  as  was  expected  ? 

The  opening  of  the  service  recalls  my  wandering 
thoughts.  I  then  find,  to  my  astonishment,  that  I  have 
been,  and  still  am,  taking  a  strong  kind  of  invisible  snuff 
up  my  nose,  into  my  eyes,  and  down  my  throat.  I  wink, 
sneeze,  and  cough.  The  clerk  sneezes,  the  clergyman 
winks,  the  unseen  organist  sneezes  and  coughs  (and 
probably  winks)  ;  all  our  little  party  wink,  sneeze, 
cough.  The  snuff  seems  to  be  made  of  the  decay  of 
maitting,  wood,  cloth,  stone,  iron,  earth,  and  something 
else.  Is  the  something  else  the  decay  of  dead  citizens 
in  the  vaults  below  ?  As  sure  as  Death  it  is  !  Not  only 
in  the  cold  damp  February  day  do  we  cough  and  sneeze 
dead  citizens,  all  through  the  service,  but  dead  citizens 
have  got  into  the  very  bellows  of  the  organ,  and  half 
choked  the  same.  We  stamp  our  feet  to  warm  them, 
and  dead  citizens  arise  in  heavy  clouds.  Dead  citizens 
stick  upon  the  walls,  and  lie  pulverized  on  the  sounding- 
board  over  the  clergyman's  head,  and,  when  a  gust  of 
air  comes,  tumble  down  upon  him. 

In  this  first  experience  I  was  so  nauseated  by  too 
much  snuff,  made  of  the  Dowgate  family.  Comport 
branch,  and  other  families  and  branches,  that  I  gave  but 
little  heed  to  our  dull  manner  of  ambling  through  the 
service  ;  to  the  brisk  clerk's  manner  of  encouraging  us 
to  try  a  note  or  two  at  psalm  time  ;  to  the  gallery  con- 
gregation's manner  of  enjoying  a  shrill  duet,  without  a 
notion  of  time  or  tune  ;  to  the  whity-brown  man's  man- 
ner of  shutting  the  minister  into  the  pulpit,  and  being 
very  particular  with  the  lock  of  the  door^  as  if  he  were  a 
dangerous  animal.  But  I  tried  again  next  Sunday,  and 
soon  accustomed  myself  to  the  dead  citizens  when  I 
found  that  I  could  not  possibly  get  on  without  them 
among  the  City  churches. 

Another  Sunday. 

After  being  again  rung  for  by  conflicting  bells,  like  a 
leg  of  mutton  or  a  laced  hat  a  hundred  years  ago,  I  make 
selection  of  a  church,  oddily  put  away  in  a  corner  among 
a  number  of  lanes, — a  smaller  church  than  the  last,  and 
an  ugly, — of  about  the  date  of  Queen  Anne.  As  a  con- 
gregation, we  are  fourteen  strong  ;  not  counting  an  ex- 
hausted charity-school  in  a  gallery,  which  has  dwindled 
away  to  four  boys  and  two  girls.  In  the  porch  is  a  bene- 
faction of  loaves  of  bread,  which  there  would  seem  to  be 


370  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


nobody  left  in  the  exhausted  congregation  to  claim,  and 
which  I  saw  an  exhausted  beadle,  long  faded  out  of  uni- 
form, eating  with  his  eyes  for  self  and  family  when  1 
passed  in.  There  is  also  an  exhausted  clerk  in  a  brown 
wig,  and  two  or  three  exhausted  doors  and  windows  have 
been  bricked  up,  and  the  service-books  are  musty,  and 
the  pulpit  cushions  are  threadbare,  and  the  whole  of  the 
church  furniture  is  in  a  very  advanced  stage  of  exhaus- 
tion. We  are  three  old  women  (habitual),  two  young 
lovers  (accidental),  two  tradesmen,  one  with  a  wife  and 
one  alone,  an  aunt  and  nephew,  again  two  girls  (these 
two  girls,  dressed  out  for  church  with  everything  about 
them  limp  that  should  be  stiff,  and  mce  versa,  are  an  in- 
variable experience),  and  three  sniggering  boys.  The 
clergyman  is,  perlia4:)s,  the  chaplain  of  a  civic  company ; 
he  has  the  moist  and  vinous  look,  and  eke  the  bulbous 
boots,  of  one  acquainted  with  'Twenty  port,  and  comet 
vintages. 

We  are  so  quiet  in  our  dulness  that  the  three  snigger- 
ing boys  who  have  got  away  into  a  corner  by  the  altar  rail- 
ing, give  us  a  start  like  crackers,  whenever  they  laugh. 
And  this  reminds  me  of  my  own  village  church,  where, 
during  sermon  time  on  bright  Sundays  when  the  birds 
are  very  musical  indeed,  farmers'  boys  patter  out  over 
the  stone  pavement,  and  the  clerk  steps  out  from  his 
desk  after  them,  and  is  distinctly  heard  in  the  summer 
repose  to  pursue  and  punch  them  in  the  churchyard,  and 
is  seen  to  return  with  a  meditative  countenance,  making 
believe  that  nothing  of  the  sort  has  happened.  The  aunt 
and  nephew  in  this  City  are  much  disturbed  by  the 
sniggering  boys.  The  nephew  is  himself  a  boy,  and  the 
sniggerers  tempt  him  to  secular  thoughts  of  marble^ 
and  string  by  secretly  offering  such  commodities  to  his 
distant  contemplation.  This  young  Saint  Anthony  foi 
a  while  resists,  but  presently  becomes  a  backslider,  and 
in  dumb  show  defies  the  sniggerers  to  **  heave  a  marble 
or  two  in  his  direction.  Herein  he  is  detected  by  the 
aunt  (a  rigorous  reduced  gentlewoman,  who  has  the 
charge  of  offices),  and  I  perceive  that  worthy  relative  to 
poke  him  in  the  side  with  the  corrugated  hooked  handle 
of  an  ancient  umbrella.  The  nephew  revenges  himself 
for  this  by  holding  his  breath,  and  terrifying  his  kins- 
woman with  the  dread  belief  that  he  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  burst.  Regardless  of  whispers  and  shakes,  he 
swells  and  becomes  discoloured,  and  yet  again  swells 
and  becomes  discoloured,  until  the  aunt  can  bear  it  no 
longer  but  leads  him  out,  with  no  visible  neck,  and 
with  his  eyes  going  before  him  like  a  prawn's.  This 
causes  the  sniggerers  to  regard  flight  as  an  eligible  move, 
and  I  know  which  of  them  will  go  out  first,  because  of 
the  over-devout  attention  that  he  suddenly  concentrates 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  37I 


on  the  clergyman.    In  a  little  while  this  hypocrite,  with 

an  elaborate  demonstration  of  hushing  his  footsteps,  and 
with  a  face  generally  expressive  of  having  until  now 
forgotten  a  religious  appointment  elsewhere,  is  gone. 
Number  two  gets  out  in  the  same  way,  but  rather  quick- 
er. Number  three,  getting  safely  to  the  door,  there 
turns  reckless,  and,  banging  it  open,  flies  forth  with  a 
Whoop  !  that  vibrates  to  the  top  of  the  tower  above  us. 

The  clergyman,  who  is  of  a  prandial  presence  and  a 
muffled  voice,  may  be  scant  of  hearing  as  well  as  of 
breath  ;  but  he  only  glances  up,  as  having  an  idea  that 
somebody  has  said  Amen  in  a  wrong  place,  and  contin- 
ues his  steady  jog-trot,  like  a  farmer's  wife  going  to 
market.  He  does  all  he  has  to  do  in  the  same  easy  way, 
and  gives  us  a  concise  sermon,  still  like  the  jog-trot  of 
the  farmer's  wife  on  a  level  road.  Its  drowsy  cadence 
soon  fulls  the  three  old  women  asleep,  and  the  unmarried 
tradesman  sits  looking  out  at  window,  and  the  married 
tradesman  sits  looking  at  his  wife's  bonnet,  and  the 
lovers  sit  looking  at  one  another,  so  superlatively  happy, 
that  I  mind  when  I,  turned  of  eighteen,  went  with  my 
Angelica  to  a  City  church  on  account  of  a  shower  (by 
this  special  coincidence  that  it  was  in  Huggin  Lane), 
and  when  I  said  to  my  Angelica,  Let  the  blessed  event, 
Angelica,  occur  at  no  altar  but  this  1 ''  and  when  my 
Angelica  consented  that  it  should  occur  at  no  other, — 
which  it  certainly  never  did,  for  it  never  occurred  any- 
where. And,  O  Angelica,  what  has  become  of  you,  this 
present  Sunday  morning  when  I  can't  attend  to  the  ser- 
mon? and,  more  difficult  question  than  that,  what  has 
become  of  Me  as  I  was  when  I  sat  by  your  side  ! 

But  we  receive  the  signal  to  make  that  unanimous  dive 
which  surely  is  a  little  conventional, — like  the  strange 
rustlings  and  settlings  and  clearing  of  throats  and  noses 
which  are  never  dispensed  with  at  certain  points  of  the 
Church  service,  and  are  never  held  to  be  necessary  under 
any  other  circumstances.  In  a  minute  more  it  is  all  over, 
and  the  organ  expresses  itself  to  be  as  glad  of  it  as  it  can 
be  of  anything  in  its  rheumatic  state,  and  in  another 
minute  we  are  all  of  us  out  of  the  church,  and  Whity- 
brown  has  locked  it  up.  Another  minute  or  little  more, 
and,  in  the  neighbouring  churchyard, — not  the  yard  of 
that  church,  but  of  another, — a  churchyard  like  a  great 
shabby  old  mignonette-box,  with  two  trees  in  it  and  one 
tomb, — I  meet  Whity-brown  in  his  private  capacity, 
fetching  a  pint  of  beer  for  his  dinner  from  the  public- 
house  in  the  corner,  where  the  keys  of  the  rotting  fire- 
ladders  are  kept  and  were  never  asked  for,  and  where 
there  is  a  ragged,  white-seamed  out-at-elbowed  bagatelle- 
board  on  the  first  floor. 

In  one  of  these  City  churches,  and  only  in  one,  I  found 


372  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


an  individual  who  might  have  been  claimed  as  expressly 
a  City  personage.  I  remember  the  church  by  the  feature 
that  the  clergyman  couldn't  get  to  his  own  desk  without 
going  through  the  clerk's,  or  couldn't  get  to  the  pulpit 
without  going  through  the  reading-desk, — I  forget  which, 
and  it  is  no  matter, — and  by  the  presence  of  this  person^ 
age  among  the  exceedingly  sparse  congregation.  1 
doubt  if  we  were  a  dozen,  and  we  had  no  exhausted 
charity-school  to  help  us  out.  The  personage  wjis 
dressed  in  black  o>  square  cut,  and  was  stricken  in  yearsf 
and  wore  a  black  velvet  cap  and  cloth  shoes.  He  was 
of  a  staid,  wealthy,  and  dissatisfied  aspect.  In  his  hand 
he  conducted  to  church  a  mysterious  child, — a  child  of 
the  feminine  gender.  The  child  had  a  beaver  hat,  with 
a  stiff  drab  plume  that  surely  never  belonged  to  any  bird 
of  the  air.  The  child  was  further  attired  in  a  nankeen 
frock  and  spencer,  brown  boxing-gloves,  and  a  veil.  It 
had  a  blemish,  in  the  nature  of  currant  jelly,  on  its  chin  , 
and  was  a  thirsty  child.  Insomuch  that  the  personage 
carried  in  his  pocket  a  green  bottle,  from  which,  when 
the  first  psalm  was  given  out,  the  child  was  openly  re- 
freshed. At  all  other  times  throughout  the  service  it  was 
motionless,  and  stood  on  the  seat  of  the  large  pew,  closely 
fitted  into  the  corner,  like  a  rain-water  pipe. 

The  personage  never  opened  his  book,  and  never  looked 
at  the  clergyman.  He  never  sat  down  either,  but  stood 
with  his  arms  leaning  on  the  top  of  the  pew,  and  his 
forehead  sometimes  shaded  with  his  right  hand,  always 
looking  at  the  church  door.  It  was  a  long  church  for  a 
church  of  its  size,  and  he  was  at  the  upper  end,  but  he 
always  looked  at  the  door.  That  he  was  an  old  book- 
keeper, or  an  old  trader  who  had  kept  his  own  books, 
and  that  he  might  be  seen  at  the  Bank  of  England  about 
Dividend  times,  no  doubt.  That  he  had  lived  in  the 
City  all  his  life,  and  was  disdainful  of  other  localities,  no 
doubt.  Why  he  looked  at  the  door,  I  never  absolutely 
proved,  but  it  is  my  belief  that  he  lived  in  expectation 
of  the  time  when  the  citizens  would  come  back  to  live  in 
the  City,  and  its  ancient  glories  would  be  renewed.  He 
appeared  to  expect  that  this  would  occur  on  a  Sunday, 
and  that  the  wanderers  would  first  appear  in  the  deserted 
churches,  penitent  and  humbled.  Hence  he  looked  at 
the  door  which  they  never  darkened.  Whose  child 
the  child  was, — whether  the  child  of  a  disinherited 
daughter,  or  some  parish  orphan  whom  the  personage 
had  adopted, — there  was  nothing  to  lead  up  to.  It  never 
played,  or  skipped,  or  smiled.  Once  the  idea  occurred 
to  me  that  it  was  an  automaton,  and  that  the  personage 
had  made  it ;  but,  following  the  strange  couple  one  Sun- 
day, I  heard  the  personage  say  to  it,  Thirteen  thousand 
pounds"  ;  to  which  it  added  in  a  weak  human  voice; 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


373 


"  Seventeen  and  fourpence. "  Four  Sundays  I  followed 
them  out,  and  this  is  all  I  ever  heard  or  saw  them  say. 
One  Sunday  I  followed  them  home.  They  lived  behind 
a  pump,  and  the  personage  opened  their  abode  with  an 
exceeding  large  key.  The  one  solitary  inscription  on 
their  house  related  to  a  fire-plug.  The  house  was  partly 
undermined  by  a  deserted  and  closed  gateway  ;  its 
windows  were  blind  with  dirt ;  and  it  stood  with  its  face 
disconsolately  turned  to  a  wall.  Five  great  churches 
and  two  small  ones  rang  their  Sunday  bells  between 
this  house  and  the  church  the  couple  frequented,  so  they 
must  have  had  some  special  reason  for  going  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  to  it.  The  last  time  I  saw  them  was  on  this  wise. 
I  had  been  to  explore  another  church  at  a  distance,  and 
happened  to  pass  the  church  they  frequented,  at  about 
twt)  of  the  afternoon,  when  that  edifice  was  closed.  But  a 
little  side-door,  which  I  had  never  observed  before,  stood 
open  and  disclosed  certain  cellarous  steps.  Methought, 

They  are  airing  the  vaults  to-day,"  when  the  personage 
and  the  child  silently  arrived  at  the  steps,  and  silently  de- 
scended. Of  course  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
personage  had  at  last  despaired  of  the  looked -for  return 
of  the  penitent  citizens,  and  that  he  and  the  child  went 
down  to  get  themselves  buried. 

In  the  course  of  my  pilgrimages  I  came  upon  one  ob- 
scure church  which  had  broken  out  in  the  melodramatic 
style,  and  was  got  up  with  various  tawdry  decorations, 
much  after  the  manner  of  the  extinct  London  May-poles. 
These  attractions  had  induced  several  young  priests 
or  deacons  in  black  bibs  for  waistcoats,  and  several 
young  ladies  interested  in  that  holy  order  (the  propor- 
tion l3eing,  as  I  estimated,  seventeen  young  ladies  to  a 
deacon),  to  come  into  the  City  as  a  new  and  odd  excite- 
ment. It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  these  young  people 
played  out  their  little  play  in  the  heart  of  the  City,  all 
among  themselves  without  the  deserted  City's  knowing 
anything  about  it.  It  was  as  if  you  should  take  an 
empty  counting-house  on  a  Sunday,  and  act  one  of  the 
old  mysteries  there.  They  had  Impressed  a  small  school 
(from  what  neighbourhood  I  don't  know)  to  assist  in  the 
performances  ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  notice  frantic  gar- 
lands of  inscription  on  the.  walls,  especially  addressing 
those  poor  innocents  in  characters  impossible  for  them  to 
decipher.  There  was  a  remarkably  agreeable  smell  of 
pomatum  in  this  congregation. 

But  in  other  cases  rot  and  mildew  and  dead  citizens 
formed  the  uttermost  scent,  while  infused  into  it,  in  a 
dreamy  way  not  at  all  displeasing,  was  the  staple  char- 
acter of  the  neighbourhood.  In  the  churches  about  Mark 
Lane,  for  example,  there  was  a  dry  whiff  of  wheat  ;  and 
I  accidentally  struck  an  airy  sample  of  barley  out  of  an 


874  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


aged  hassock  in  one  of  them.  From  Rood  Lane  to  Tower 
Street,  and  thereabouts,  there  was  often  a  subtle  flavour 
of  wine  ;  sometimes  of  tea.  One  church  near  Mincing 
Lane  smelt  like  a  druggist's  drawer.  Behind  the  Mon- 
ument the  service  had  a  flavour  of  damaged  oranges, 
which  a  little  farther  down  towards  the  river  tempered 
into  herrings,  and  gradually  toned  into  a  cosmopolitan 
blast  of  fish.  In  one  church,  the  exact  counterpart  of 
the  church  in  the  Rake's  Progress  where  the  hero  is 
being  married  to  the  horrible  old  lady,  there  was  no 
specialty  of  atmosphere,  until  the  organ  shook  a  per- 
fume of  hides  all  over  us  from  some  adjacent  warehouse. 

Be  the  scent  what  it  would,  however,  there  was  no 
specialty  in  the  people.  Thore  were  never  enough  of 
them  to  represent  any  calling  or  neighbourhood.  They 
had  all  gone  elsewhere  overnight,  and  the  few  stragglers 
in  the  many  churches  languished  there  inexpressively. 

Among  the  uncommercial  travels  in  which  I  have  en- 
gaged, this  year  of  Sunday  travel  occupies  its  owe  place 
apart  from  all  the  rest.  Whether  I  think  of  the  church 
where  the  sails  of  the  oyster-boats  in  the  river  almost 
flapped  against  the  windows,  or  of  the  church  where  the 
railroad  made  the  bells  hum  as  the  train  rushed  by  above 
the  roof,  I  recall  a  curious  experience.  On  summer  Sun- 
days, in  the  gentle  rain  or  the  bright  sunshine, — either 
deepening  the  idleness  of  the  idle  City, — I  have  sat  in 
that  singular  silence  which  belongs  to  resting-places 
usually  astir,  in  scores  of  buildings,  at  the  heart  of  the 
world's  metropolis,  unknown  to  far  greater  numbers  of 
people  speaking  the  English  tongue  than  the  ancient 
edifices  of  the  Eternal  City,  or  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt. 
The  dark  vestries  into  which  I  have  peeped,  and  the  lit- 
tle hemmed-in  churchyards  that  have  echoed  to  my  feet, 
have  left  impressions  on  my  memory  as  distinct  and 
quaint  as  any  it  has  in  that  way  received.  In  all  those 
dusty  registers  that  the  worms  are  eating,  there  is  not  a 
line  but  made  some  hearts  leap,  or  some  tears  flow,  in 
their  day.  Still  and  dry  now,  still  and  dry  !  and  the  old 
tree  at  the  window,  with  no  room  for  its  branches,  has 
seen  them  all  out.  So  with  the  tomb  of  the  old  Master 
of  the  old  Company,  on  which  it  drips.  His  son  restored 
it  and  died,  his  daughter  restored  it  and  died,  and  then 
he  had  been  remembered  long  enough,  and  the  tree  took 
possession  of  him,  and  his  name  cracked  out. 

There  are  few  more  striking  indications  of  the  changes 
of  manners  and  customs  that  two  or  three  hundred  years 
have  brought  about,  than  these  deserted  churches. 
Many  of  them  are  handsome  and  costly  structures,  sev- 
eral of  them  were  designed  by  Wren,  many  of  them 
arose  from  the  ashes  of  the  great  fire,  others  of  them 
outlived  the  plague  and  the  fire  too,  to  die  a  slow  death 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


375 


in  these  later  days.  No  one  can  be  sure  of  the  coming 
time  ;  but  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  of  it  that  it  has  no 
sign,  in  its  outsetting  tides,  of  the  reflux  to  these 
churches  of  their  congregations  and  uses.  They  remain, 
like  the  tombs  of  the  old  citizens  who  lie  beneath  them 
and  around  them,  Monument  of  another  age.  They  are 
worth  a  Sunday  exploration  now  and  then,  for  they  yet 
echo,  not  unharmoniously,  to  the  time  when  the  city  of 
London  really  was  London  ;  when  the  'Prentices  and 
Trained  Bands  were  of  mark  in  the  state  ;  when  even 
the  Lord  Mayor  himself  was  a  Reality, — not  a  Fiction 
conventionally  bepuffed  on  one  day  in  the  year  by  illus- 
trious friends,  who  no  less  conventionally  laugh  at  him 
(Ml  the  remaining  three  hundred  and  sixty- four  days. 


X. 

Shy  Neighbourhoeds, 

So  much  ©f  my  travelling  is  done  on  foot,  that,  if  I 
cherished  betting  propensities,  I  should  probably  be 
found  registered  in  sporting  newspapers,  under  some 
sjich  title  as  the  Elastic  Novice,  challenging  all  eleven- 
stone  mankind  to  competition  in  walking.  My  last  spe- 
cial feat  was  turning  out  of  bed  at  two,  after  a  hard  day, 
pedestrian  or  otherwise,  and  walking  thirty  miles  into 
the  country  to  breakfast.  The  road  was  so  lonely  in 
the  night,  that  I  fell  asleep  to  the  monotonous  sound  of 
my  own  feet,  doing  their  regular  four  miles  an  hour. 
Mile  after  mile  I  walked,  without  the  slightest  sense  of 
exertion,  dozing  heavily  and  dreaming  constantly.  It 
was  only  when  I  made  a  stumble  like  a  drunken  man, 
or  struck  out  into  the  road  to  avoid  a  horseman  close  up° 
on  me  on  the  path, — who  had  no  existence, — that  I  came 
to  myself  and  looked  about.  The  day  broke  mistily  (it 
was  autumn-time),  and  I  could  not  disembarrass  myself 
of  the  idea  that  I  had  to  climb  those  heights  and  banks  of 
cloud,  and  that  there  was  an  Alpine  Convent  somewhere 
behind  the  sun,  where  I  was  going  to  breakfast.  This 
sleepy  notion  was  so  much  stronger  than  such  substan- 
tial objects  as  villages  and  haystacks,  that,  after  the  sun 
was  up  and  bright,  and  when  I  was  sufficiently  awake 
to  have  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  the  prospect,  I  still  occa- 
sionally caught  myself  looking  about  for  w^ooden  arms 
to  point  the  right  track  up  the  mountain,  and  wonder- 
ing there  was  no  snow  yet.  It  is  a  curiosity  of  broken 
sleep  that  I  made  immense  quantities  of  verses  on  that 
pedestrian  occasion  (of  course  I  never  make  any  when  I 
am  in  my  right  senses),  and  that  I  spoke  a  certain  Ian- 


376  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


guage  once  pretty  familiar  to  me,  but  wliich  I  have 
nearly  forgotten  from  disuse,  witli  fluency.  Of  both 
these  phenomena  I  have  such  frequent  experience,  in 
the  state  between  sleeping  and  waking,  that  I  some- 
times argue  with  myself  that  I  know  I  cannot  be  awake, 
for,  if  I  were,  I  should  not  be  half  so  ready.  The  readi- 
ness is  not  imaginary,  because  I  often  recall  long  strings 
of  the  verses,  and  many  turns  of  the  fluent  speech,  after 
I  am  broad  awake. 

My  walking  is  of  two  kinds  :  one,  straight  on  end  to 
a  definite  goal  at  a  round  pace  ;  one,  objectless,  loiter- 
ing, and  purely  vagabond.  In  the  latter  state,  no  gypsy 
on  earth  is  a  greater  vagabond  than  myself  ;  it  is  80 
natural  to  me  and  strong'with  me,  that  I  think  I  must 
be  the  descendant,  at  no  great  distance,  of  some  irre- 
claimable tramp. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things  I  have  lately  met  with, 
in  a  vagabond  course  of  shy  metropolitan  neighbour- 
hoods and  small  shops,  is  the  fancy  of  a  humble  artist, 
as  exemplified  in  two- portraits  representing  Mr.  Thomas 
Sayers,  of  Great  Britain,  and  Mr.  John  Heenan,  of  the 
United  States  of  America.  These  illustrious  men  are 
highly  coloured  in  the  fighting  trim,  and  fighting  atti- 
tude. To  suggest  the  pastoral  and  meditative  nature  of 
their  peaceful  calling,  Mr.  Heenan  is  represented  on 
emerald  sward,  with  primroses  and  other  modest  flow- 
ers springing  up  under  the  heels  of  his  half -boots  ; 
while  Mr.  Sayers  is  impelled  to  the  administration  of 
his  favourite  blow,  the  Auctioneer,  by  the  silent  elo- 
quence of  a  village  church.  The  humble  homes  of  Eng- 
land, with  their  domestic  virtues  and  honeysuckle 
porches,  urge  both  heroes  to  go  in  and  win  ;  and  the 
lark  and  other  singing-birds  are  observable  in  the  upper 
air  ecstatically  carolling  their  thanks  to  Heaven  for  a 
fight.  On  the  whole  the  associations  intwined  with  the 
pugilistic  art  by  this  artist  are  much  in  the  manner  of 
Izaak  Walton. 

But  it  is  with  the  lower  animals  of  back  streets  and 
by-ways  that  my  present  purpose  rests.  For  human 
notes  we  may  return  to  such  neighbourhoods  when  leis- 
ure and  opportunity  serve. 

Nothing  in  shy  neighbourhoods  perplexes  my  mind 
more  than  the  bad  company  birds  keep.  Foreign  birds 
often  get  into  good  society,  but  British  birds  are  insep^ 
arable  from  low  associates.  There  is  a  whole  street  of 
them  in  Saint  Giles's,  and  I  always  find  them  in  poor 
and  immoral  neighbourhoods,  convenient  to  the  public- 
house  and  the  pawnbroker's.  They  seem  to  lead  people 
!into  drinking,  and  even  the  man  who  makes  their  cages 
usually  gets  into  a  chronic  state  of  black  eye.  Why  is 
this?   AlsOy  they  will  do  things  for  people  in  short- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  377 


skirted  velveteen  coats  with  bone  buttons,  or  in  sleeved 
waistcoats  and  fur  caps,  which  they  cannot  be  persuaded 
by  the  respectable  orders  of  society  to  undertake.  In  a 
dirty  court  in  Spital fields,  once,  I  found  a  goldfinch  draw- 
ing his  own  water,  and  drawing  as  much  of  it  as  if  h<e 
were  in  a  consuming  fever.  That  goldfinch  lived  at  a  bird- 
shop,  and  offered,  in  writing,  to  barter  himself  against 
old  clothes,  empty  bottles,  or  even  kitchen-stuff.  Surely 
a  low  thing  and  a  depraved  taste  in  any  finch  1  I  bought 
that  goldfinch  for  money.  He  was  sent  home,  and  hung 
upon  a  nail  over  against  my  table.  He  lived  outside  a 
counterfeit  dwelling-house,  supposed  (as  I  argued)  to  be 
a  dyer's ;  otherwise  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
account  for  his  perch  sticking  out  of  the  garret  window. 
From  the  time  of  his  appearance  in  my  room,  either  he 
left  off  being  thirsty, — which  was  not  in  the  bond, — or 
he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  tO  hear  his  little  bucket 
drop  back  into  his  well  when  he  let  it  go, — a  shock  which 
in  the  best  of  times  had  made  him  tremble.  He  drew 
no  water  but  by  stealth  and  under  the  cloak  of  night. 
After  an  interval  of  futile  and  at  length  hopeless  expec- 
tation, the  merchant  who  had  educated  him  was  appealed 
to.  The  merchant  was  a  bow-legged  character,  with  a 
flat  and  cushiony  nose,  like  the  last  new  strawberry.  He 
wore  a  fur  cap,  and  shorts,  and  was  of  the  velveteen 
race  velveteeny.  He  sent  word  that  he  would  look 
round."  He  looked  round,  appeared  in  the  doorway  of 
the  room,  and  slightly  cocked  up  his  evil  eye  at  the  gold- 
finch. Instantly  a  raging  thirst  beset  that  bird  ;  when 
it  was  appeased,  he  still  drew  several  unnecessary  buck- 
ets of  water  ;  and  finally  leaped  about  his  perch  and 
sharpened  his  bill,  as  if  he  had  been  to  the  nearest  wine- 
vaults  and  got  drunk. 

Donkeys  again.  I  know  shy  neighbourhoods  where 
the  Donkey  goes  in  at  the  street  door,  and  appears  to  live 
up-stairs,  for  I  have  examined  the  back  yard  from  over 
the  palings,  and  have  been  unable  to  make  him  out. 
Gentility,  nobility.  Royalty,  would  appeal  to  that  donkey 
in  vain  to  do  what  he  does  for  a  costermonger.  Feed 
him  with  oats  at  the  highest  price,  put  an  infant  prince 
and  princess  in  a  pair  of  panniers  on  his  back,  adjust  his 
delicate  trappings  to  a  nicety,  take  him  to  the  softest 
slopes  at  Windsor,  and  try  what  pace  you  can  get  out  of 
him.  Then  starve  him,  harness  him  anyhow  to  a  truck 
with  a  flat  tray  on  it,  and  see  him  bowl  from  White- 
chapel  to  Bayswater.  There  appears  to  be  no  particular 
private  understanding  between  birds  and  donkeys  in  a 
state  of  nature  ;  but  in  the  shy-neighbourhood  state  you 
shall  see  them  always  in  the  same  hands,  and  always  de- 
veloping their  very  best  energies  for  the  very  worst  com- 
pany.   I  have  known  a  donkey — by  sight ;  we  were  not 


378  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


on  speaking  terms — who  lived  over  on  tlie  Surrey  side 
of  London  Bridge,  among  the  fastnesses  of  Jacob's  Island 
and  Dockhead.  It  was  the  habit  of  that  animal,  when 
his  services  were  not  in  immediate  requisition,  to  go  out 
alone,  idling.  I  have  met  him,  a  mile  from  his  place  of 
residence,  loitering  about  the  streets  ;  and  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  at  such  times  was  most  degrad- 
ed. He  was  attached  to  the  establishment  of  an  elderly 
lady  who  sold  periwinkles  ;  and  he  used  to  stand  on  Sat- 
urday nights  with  a  cartful  of  those  delicacies  outside  a 
gin-shop,  pricking  up  his  ears  when  a  customer  came  to 
the  cart,  and  too  evidently  deriving  satisfaction  from 
the  knowledge  that  they  got  bad  measure.  His  mis- 
tress was  sometimes  overtaken  by  inebriety.  The  last 
time  I  ever  saw  him  (about  five  years  ago)  he  was 
in  circumstances  of  difficulty,  caused  by  this  failing. 
Having  been  left  alone  with  the  cart  of  periwinkles,  and 
forgotten,  he  went  off  idling.  He  prowled  among  his 
usual  low  haunts  for  some  time,  gratifying  his  depraved 
tastes,  until,  not  taking  the  cart  into  his  calculations,  he 
endeavoured  to  turn  up  a  narrow  alley,  and  became  great- 
ly involved.  He  was  taken  into  custody  by  the  police, 
and,  the  Green  Yard  of  the  district  being  near  at  hand, 
was  backed  into  that  place  of  durance.  At  that  crisis  I 
encountered  him  ;  the  stubborn  sense  he  evinced  of  be- 
ing— not  to  compromise  the  expression — a  blackguard,  I 
never  saw  exceeded  in  the  human  subject.  A  flaring 
candle  in  a  paper  shade,  stuck  in  among  his  periwinkles, 
showed  him,  with  his  ragged  harness  broken  and  bis 
cart  extensively  shattered,  twitching  his  mouth  and  shak- 
ing his  hanging  head,  a  picture  of  disgrace  and  obdu- 
mcy.  I  have  seen  boys,  being  taken  to  station-houses, 
who  were  as  like  him  as  his  own  brother. 

The  dogs  of  shy  neighbourhoods  I  observe  to  avoid  play, 
and  to  be  conscious  of  poverty;  They  avoid  work,  too, 
if  they  can,  of  course:  that  is  in  the  nature  of  all  ani- 
mals. I  have  the  pleasure  to  know  a  dog  in  a  back  stree* 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Walworth,  who  has  greatly  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  the  minor  drama,  and  who  takes 
his  portrait  with  him,  when  he  makes  an  engagement, 
for  the  illustration  of  the  play- bill.  His  portrait  (which 
is  not  at  all  like  him)  represents  him  in  the  act  of  drag- 
ging to  the  earth  a  recreant  Indian,  who  is  supposed  to 
have  tomahawked,  or  essayed  to  tomahawk,  a  British 
officer.  The  design  is  y)ure  poetry  ;  for  there  is  no  such 
Indian  in  the  piece,  and  no  such  incident.  He  is  a  dog 
of  the  Newfoundland  breed,  for  whose  honesty  I  would 
be  biil  to  any  amount;  but  whoso  intellectual  qualities 
in  association  with  dramatic  fiction,  I  cannot  rate  high. 
Indeed,  he  is  too  honest  for  the  profession  he  has  entered. 
Being  at  a  town  in  Yorkshire  last  summer,  and  seeing 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  379 


him  posted  in  the  bill  of  the  night,  I  attended  the  per- 
formance. His  first  scene  was  eminently  successful ; 
but,  as  it  occupied  a  second  in  its  representation  (and 
five  lines  in  the  bill),  it  scarcely  afforded  ground  for  a 
cool  and  deliberate  judgment  of  his  powers.  He  had 
merely  to  bark,  run  on,  and  jump  through  an  inn  win- 
dow after  a  comic  fugitive.  The  next  scene  of  impor- 
tance to  the  fable  was  a  little  marred  in  its  interest  by 
his  over-anxiety,  forasmuch  as,  while  his  master  (a  be^ 
lated  soldier  in  a  den  of  robbers  on  a  tempestuous  night) 
was  feelingly  lamenting  the  absence  of  his  faithful  dog, 
and  layicig  great  stress  on  the  fact  that  he  was  thirty 
leagues  away,  the  faithful  dog  was  barking  furiously  in 
the  prompter's  box,  and  clearly  choking  himself  against 
his  collar.  But  it  was  in  his  greatest  scene  of  all  that 
his  honesty  got  the  better  of  him.  He  had  to  enter  a 
dense  and  trackless  forest,  on  the  trail  of  the  murderer, 
and  there  to  fly  at  the  murderer  when  he  found  him 
resting  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  with  his  victim  bound  ready 
for  slaughter.  It  was  a  hot  night,  and  he  came  into  the 
forest  from  an  altogether  unexpected  direction,  in  the 
sweetest  temper,  at  a  very  deliberate  trot,  not  in  the 
least  excited ;  trotted  to  the  foot-lights  with  his  tongue 
out ;  and  there  sat  down,  panting,  and  amiably  survey- 
ing the  audience,  w^ith  his  tail  beating  on  the  boards, 
like  a  Dutch  clock.  Meanwhile  the  murderer,  impatient 
to  receive  his  doom,  was  audibly  calling  to  him, 
Co-O-ME  here  !  while  the  victim,  struggling  with  his 
bonds,  assailed  him  with  tlie  most  injurious  expressions. 
It  happened,  through  these  means,  that  when  he  was 
in  course  of  time  persuaded  to  trot  up  and  rend  the 
murderer  limb  from  limb,  he  made  it  (for  dramatic 
purposes)  a  little  too  obvious  that  he  worked  out  that 
awful  retribution  by  licking  butter  off  his  bloodstained 
hands. 

In  a  shy  street,  behind  Long  Acre,  two  honest  dogs 
live  who  perform  in  Punch's  shows.  I  may  venture  to 
say  that  I  am  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  both,  and  that 
I  never  saw  either  guilty  of  the  falsehood  of  failing  to 
look  down  at  the  man  inside  the  show,  during  the  whole 
performance.  The  difficulty  other  dogs  have  in  satisfy » 
ing  their  minds  about  these  dogs  appears  to  be  never 
overcome  by  time.  The  same  dogs  must  encounter 
them  over  and  over  again,  as  they  trudge  along  in  their 
off-minutes  behind  the  legs  of  the  show  and  beside  the 
drum  ;  but  all  dogs  seem  to  suspect  their  frills  and 
jackets,  and  to  sniff  at  them  as  if  they  thought  those 
articles  of  personal  adornment  an  eruption, — a  something 
in  the  nature  of  mange,  perhaps.  From  this  Covent 
Garden  window  of  mine  I  noticed  a  country  dog,  only 
the  other  day,  who  had  come  up  to  Covent  Garden  Mar- 


380  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ket  under  a  cart,  and  had  broken  his  cord ,  an  end  of 
which  he  still  trailed  along  with  him.  He  loitered  about 
the  corners  of  the  four  streets  commanded  by  my  win- 
dow ;  and  bad  London  dogs  came  up,  and  told  him  lies 
that  he  didn't  believe  ;  and  worse  London  dogs  came  up, 
and  made  proposals  to  him  to  go  and  steal  in  the  market, 
which  his  principles  rejected  ;  and  the  ways  of  the  town 
confused  him,  and  he  crept  aside,  and  lay  down  in  a 
door- way.  He  had  scarcely  got  a  wink  of  sleep,  when 
up  comes  Punch  with  Toby.  He  was  darting  to  Toby 
for  consolation  and  advice,  when  he  saw  the  frill,  and 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  appalled.  The  show 
was  pitched,  Toby  retired  behind  the  drapery,  the  audi, 
ence  formed,  the  drum  and  pipes  struck  up.  My  coun^ 
try  dog  remained  immovable,  intently  staring  at  these 
strange  appearances,  until  Toby  opened  the  drama  by 
appearing  on  his  ledge,  and  to  him  entered  Punch,  who 
put  a  tobacco-pipe  into  Toby's  mouth.  At  this  spectacle 
the  country  dog  threw  up  his  head,  gave  one  terrible 
howl,  and  fled  due  west. 

We  talk  of  men  keeping  dogs,  but  we  might  often 
talk  more  expressively  of  dogs  keeping  men.  I  know  a 
bull-dog  in  a  shy  corner  of  Hammersmith  who  keeps  a 
man.  He  keeps  him  up  a  yard,  and  makes  him  go  to 
public-houses  and  lay  wagers  on  him,  and  obliges  him 
to  lean  against  posts  and  look  at  him,  and  forces  him  to 
neglect  work  for  him,  and  keeps  him  under  rigid  co- 
ercion. I  once  knew  a  fancy  terrier  who  kept  a  gentle- 
man,— a  gentleman  who  ha.d  been  brought  up  at  Oxford 
too.  The  dog  kept  the  gentleman  entirely  for  his  glori- 
fication, and  the  gentleman  never  talked  about  anything 
but  the  terrier.  This,  however,  was  not  in  a  shy  neigh- 
bourhood, and  is  a  digression  consequently. 

There  are  a  great  many  dogs  in  shy  neighbourhoods 
who  keep  boys.  I  have  my  eye  on  a  mongrel  in  Somers- 
town  who  keeps  three  boys.  He  feigns  that  he  can 
bring  down  sparrows,  and  unburrow  rats  (he  can  do 
do  neither),  and  he  takes  the  boys  out  on  sporting  pre- 
tences into  all  sorts  of  suburban  fields.  He  has  likewise 
made  them  believe  that  he  possesses  some  mysterious 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  fishing,  and  they  consider  them- 
selves incompletely  equipped  for  the  Hampstead  ponds, 
with  a  pickle-jar  and  a  wide-mouthed  bottle,  unless  he 
is  with  them  and  barking  tremendously.  There  is  a  dog 
residing  in  the  Borough  of  Southwark  who  keeps  a  blind 
man.  He  may  be  seen,  most  days,  in  Oxford  street, 
haling  the  blind  man  away  on  expeditions  wholly  uncon- 
templated by,  and  unintelligible  to,  the  man, — wholly 
of  the  dog's  conception  and  execution.  Contrariwise, 
when  the  man  has  projects,  the  dog  will  sit  down  in  a 
crowded  thoroughfare  an'^l  meditate.    I  saw  him  yester- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TllAVELLER.  381 


day,  wearing  tlie  money  tray  like  an  easy  collar,  instead 
of  offering  it  to  the  public,  taking  the  man  against  his 
will,  on  the  invitation  of  a  disreputable  cur,  apparently 
to  visit  a  dog  at  Harrow, — he  was  so  intent  on  that  di- 
rection. The  north  wall  of  Burlington  House  Gardens, 
between  the  Arcade  and  the  Albany,  offers  a  shy  spot 
for  appointments  among  blind  men  at  about  two  or  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  They  sit  (very  uncomfortably) 
on  a  sloping  stone  there,  and  compare  notes.  Their  dogs 
may  always  be  observed  at  the  same  time  openly  dispar- 
aging the  *men  they  keep  to  one  another,  and  settling 
where  they  shall  respectively  take  their  men  when  they 
begin  to  move  again.  At  a  small  butcher's,  in  a  shy 
neighbourhood  (there  is  no  reason  for  suppressing  the 
name  ;  it  is  by  Notting  Hill,  and  gives  upon  the  district 
called  the  Potteries),  I  know  a  shaggy  black  and  white 
dog  who  keeps  a  drover.  He  is  a  dog  of  an  easy  dispo- 
sition, and  too  frequently  allows  this  drover  to  get  drunk. 
On  these  occasions  it  is  the  dog's  custom  to  sit  outside 
the  public-house,  keeping  his  eye  on  a  few  sheep,  and 
thinking.  I  have  seen  him  with  six  sheep,  plainly  cast- 
ing up  in  his  mind  how  many  he  began  with  when  he 
left  the  market,  and  at  what  places  he  has  left  the  rest. 
I  have  seen  him  perplexed  by  not  being  able  to  account 
to  himself  for  certain  particular  sheep.  A  light  has 
gradually  broken  on  him,  he  has  remembered  at  what 
butcher's  he  left  them,  and  in  a  burst  of  grave  satisfac- 
tion has  caught  a  fly  off  his  nose,  and  shown  himself 
much  relieved.  If  I  could  at  any  time  have  doubted 
the  fact  that  it  was  he  who  kept  the  drover,  and  not  the 
drover  who  kept  him,  it  would  have  been  abundantly 
proved  by  his  way  of  taking  undivided  charge  of  the  six 
sheep,  when  the  drover  came  out  besmeared  with  red 
ochre  and  beer,  and  gave  him  wrong  directions,  which 
he  calmly  disregarded.  He  has  taken  the  sheep  entirely 
into  his  own  hands,  has  merely  remarked,  with  respect- 
ful firmness,  That  instruction  would  place  them  under 
an  omnibus  ;  you  had  better  confine  your  attention  to 
yourself — you  will  want  it  all";  and  has  driven  his 
charge  away,  with  an  intelligence  of  ears  and  tail,  and  a 
knowledge  of  business,  that  has  left  his  lout  of  a  man 
very,  very  far  behind. 

As  the  dogs  of  shy  neighbourhoods  usually  betray  a 
slinking  consciousness  of  being  in  poor  circumstances, — 
for  the  most  part  manifested  in  an  aspect  of  anxiety,  an 
awkwardness  in  their  play,  and  a  misgiving  that  some- 
l)ody  is  going  to  harness  them  to  something,  to  pick  up 
a  living, — so  the  cats  of  shy  neighbourhoods  exhibit  & 
strong  tendency  to  relapse  into  barbarism.  Not  only  are 
they  made  selfishly  ferocious  by  ruminating  on  the  sur- 
plus population  around  them,  and  on  the  densely  crowded 


382 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


state  of  all  the  avenues  to  cat's  meat, — not  only  is  there 
a  moral  and  politico-economical  haggardness  in  them, 
traceable  to  these  reflections, — but  they  evince  a  physical 
deterioration.  Their  linen  is  not  clean,  and  is  wretchedly 
got  up  ;  their  black  turns  rusty,  like  old  mourning  ;  they 
wear  very  indifferent  fur,  and  take  to  the  shabbiest  cotton 
velvet,  instead  of  silk  velvet.  I  am  on  terms  of  recog- 
nition with  several  small  streets  of  cats,  about  the  obe- 
lisk in  Saint  George's  Fields,  and  also  in  the  vicinity  of 
Clerkenwell  Green,  and  also  in  the  back  settlements  of 
Drury  Lane.  In  appearance  they  are  very  like  the  wo- 
men among  whom  they  live.  They  seem  to  turn  out  of 
their  unwholesome  beds  into  the  street  without  any  pre- 
paration. They  leave  their  young  families  to  stagger 
about  the  gutters  unassisted,  while  they  fro wzily  quarrel 
and  swear  and  scratch  and  spit,  at  street  corners.  In 
particular,  I  remark  that  when  they  are  about  to  increase 
their  families  (an  event  of  frequent  recurrence)  the  re- 
semblance is  strongly  expressed  in  a  certain  dusty  dow^ 
diness,  down-at-heel  self-neglect,  and  general  giving  up 
of  things.  I  cannot  honestly  report  that  I  have  ever 
seen  a  feline  matron  of  this  class  washing  her  face  when 
in  an  interesting  condition. 

Not  to  prolong  these  notes  of  uncommercial  travel 
among  the  lower  animals  of  shy  neigh oourhoods,  by 
dwelling  at  length  upon  the  exasperated  moodiness  of 
the  tomcats,  and  their  resemblance  in  many  respects  to  a 
man  and  a  brother,  I  will  come  to  a  close  with  a  word 
on  the  fowls  of  the  same  localities. 

That  anything  born  of  an  egg  and  invested  with  wings 
should  have  got  to  the  pass  that  it  hops  contentedly 
down  a  ladder  into  a  cellar,  and  calls  tJiat  going  home,  is 
a  circumstance  so  amazing  as  to  leave  one  nothing  more 
in  this  connection  to  wonder  at.  Otherwise  I  might 
wonder  at  the  completeness  wdth  which  these  fowls 
have  become  separated  from  all  the  birds  of  the  air,— 
have  taken  to  grovelling  in  bricks  and  mortar  and  mud, 
— have  forgotten  all  about  live  trees,  and  make  roosting- 
places  of  shop-boards,  barrows,  oyster-tubs,  bulkheads, 
and  door-scrapers.  I  wonder  at  nothing  concerning  them, 
and  take  them  as  they  are.  I  accept  as  products  of  Na- 
ture and  things  of  course  a  reduced  Bantam  family  of 
my  acquaintance  in  the  Hackney  Road,  who  are  inces- 
santly at  the  pawnbroker's.  I  cannot  say  that  they  en- 
joy themselves,  for  they  are  of  a  melancholy  tempera- 
ment ;  but  what  enjoyment  they  are  capable  of  they 
derive  from  crowding  together  in  the  pawnbroker's  side- 
entry.  Here  they  are  always  to  be  found  in  a  feeble 
flutter,  as  if  they  were  newly  come  down  in  the  world, 
and  were  afraid  of  being  identified.  I  know  a  low  fel- 
low, originally  of  a  o-ood  family  from  Dorking,  who 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVBLLEii. 


383 


takes  his  whole  establishment  of  wives,  in  single  file, 
in  at  the  door  of  the  Jug  Department  of  a  disorderly 
tavern  near  the  Haymarket,  manoeuvres  them  among 
the  company's  legs,  emerges  with  them  at  the  Bottle 
Entrance,  and  so  passes  his  life  ;  seldom,  in  the  season, 
going  to  bed  before  two  in  the  morning.  Over  Water- 
loo Bridge  there  is  a  shabby  old  speckled  couple  (they 
belong  to  the  wooden  French  bedstead,  washing-stand, 
and  towel-horse  making  trade),  who  are  always  trying 
to  get  in  al  the  door  of  a  chapel.  Whether  the  old  lady, 
under  a  delusion  reminding  one  of  Mrs.  Southcott,  has 
an  idea  of  intrusting  an  egg  to  that  particular  denomina- 
tion, or  merely  understands  that  she  has  no  business  in 
the  building,  and  is  consequently  frantic  to  enter  it,  I 
cannot  determine  ;  but  she  is  constantly  endeavouring 
to  undermine  the  principal  door  ;  w^hile  her  partner, 
who  is  infirm  upon  his  legs,  walks  up  and  down,  encour- 
aging her  and  defying  the  Universe.  But  the  fam- 
ily I  have  been  best  acquainted  with  since  the  removal 
from  this  trying  sphere  of  a  Chinese  circle  at  Brentford, 
reside  in  the  densest  part  of  Betbnal  Green.  Their 
abstraction  from  the  objects  among  which  they  live,  or 
rather  their  conviction  that  those  objects  have  all  come 
into  existence  in  express  subservience  to  fowls,  has  so 
enchanted  me,  that  I  have  made  them  the  subject  of 
many  journeys  at  divers  hours.  After  careful  observa- 
tion of  the  two  lords  and  the  ten  ladies  of  whom  this 
family  consists,  £  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  tbcir 
opinions  are  represented  by  the  leading  lord  and  leading 
lady  ;  the  latter,  as  I  judge,  an  aged  personage,  afflicted 
with  a  paucity  of  feather  and  a  visibility  of  quill,  that 
gives  her  the  appearance  of  a  bundle  of  office  pens. 
When  a  railway  goods- van  that  would  crush  an  ele- 
phant comes  round  the  corner,  tearing  over  these  fowls, 
they  emerge  unharmed  from  under  the  horses,  perfectly 
satisfied  that  the  whole  rush  was  a  passing  property  in 
the  air,  which  may  have  left  something  to  eat  behind  it. 
They  look  upon  old  shoes,  wrecks  of  kettles  and  sauce- 
pans, and  fragments  of  bonnets,  as  a  kind  of  meteoric 
discharge  for  fowls  to  peck  at.  Peg-tops  and  hoops  they 
account,  I  think,  as  a  sort  of  hail  ;  shuttlecocks,  as  rain 
or  dew  ;  gas-light  comes  quite  as  natural  to  them  as 
any  other  light  ;  and  I  have  more  than  a  suspicion  that, 
in  the  minds  of  the  two  lords,  the  early  public-house  at 
the  corner  has  superseded  the  sun.  I  have  established 
it  as  a  certain  fact,  that  they  always  begin  to  crow 
when  the  public-house  shutters  begin  to  be  taken  down, 
and  they  salute  the  pot-boy,  the  instant  he  appears  to 
perform  that  duty,  as  if  he  were  Phoebus  in  person. 


384 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


XI. 

Tramps. 

The  chance  use  of  the  word  "  Tramp  "  in  my  last  paper 
brought  that  numerous  fraternity  so  vividly  before  my 
mind's  eye,  that  I  had  no  sooner  laid  down  my  pen  than 
a  compulsion  was  upon  me  to  take  it  up  again,  and  make 
notes  of  the  Tramps  whom  I  perceived  on  all  the  sum- 
mer roads  in  all  directions. 

Whenever  a  tramp  sits  down  to  rest  by  the  wayside, 
he  sits  with  his  legs  in  a  dry  ditch  ;  and  whenever  he 
goes  to  sleep  (which  is  very  often  indeed),  he  goes  to 
sleep  on  his  back.  Yonder  by  the  high-road,  glaring 
white  in  the  bright  sunshine,  lies,  on  the  dusty  bit  of  turf 
under  the  bramble-bush  that  fences  the  coppice  from  the 
highway,  the  tramp  of  the  order  savage,  fast  asleep. 
He  lies  on  the  broad  of  his  back,  with  his  face  turned 
up  to  the  sky,  and  one  of  his  ragged  arms  loosely  thrown 
across  his  face.  His  bundle  (what  can  be  the  contents 
of  that  mysterious  bundle,  to  make  it  worth  his  while 
to  carry  it  about  ?)  is  thrown  down  beside  him,  and  the 
waking  woman  with  him  sits  with  her  legs  in  the  ditch, 
and  her  back  to  the  road.  She  wears  her  bonnet  rakish- 
ly  perched  on  the  front  of  her  head,  to  shade  her  face 
from  the  sun  in  walking,  and  she  ties  her  skirts  round 
her,  in  conventionally  tight  tramp  fashion,  with  a 
sort  of  apron.  You  can  seldom  catch  sight  of  her,  rest- 
ing thus,  without  seeing  her  in  a  despondently  defiant 
manner  doing  something  to  her  hair  or  her  bonnet, 
and  glancing  at  you  through  her  fingers.  She  does  not 
often  go  to  sleep  herself  in  the  daytime,  but  will  sit  for 
any  length  of  time  beside  the  man.  i^nd  his  slumber- 
ous propensities  would  not  seem  to  be  referable  to  the 
fatigue  of  carrying  the  bundle,  for  she  carries  it  much 
oftener  and  farther  than  he.  When  they  are  afoot,  you 
will  mostly  find  him  slouching  on  ahead,  in  a  gruff  temper, 
while  she  lags  heavily  behind  with  the  burden.  He  is 
given  to  personally  correcting  her,  too,— which  phase 
of  his  character  develops  itself  oftenest  on  benches 
outside  alehouse  doors, — and  she  appears  to  become 
strongly  attached  to  him  for  these  reasons  ;  it  may  usu- 
ally be  noticed  that  when  the  poor  creature  has  a  bruised 
face  she  is  the  most  affectionate.  He  has  no  occupation 
whatever,  this  order  of  tramp,  and  has  no  object  what- 
ever, in  going  anywhere.  He  will  sometimes  call  him- 
self a  brickmaker,  or  a  sawyer,  but  only  when  he  takes 
an  imaginative  flight.  He  generally  represents  himself, 
in  a  vague  way,  as  looking  out  for  a  job  of  work  ;  but 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  385 


he  never  did  work,  he  never  does,  and  he  never,  never 
will.  It  is  a  favourite  fiction  with  him,  however  (as  if 
he  were  the  most  industrious  character  on  earth),  that 
you  never  work  ;  and  as  he  goes  past  your  garden  and 
sees  you  looking  at  your  flowers,  you  will  overhear  him 
growl,  with  a  strong  sense  of  contrast,  You  are  a  lucky 
hidle  devil,  you  are  !  " 

TV  i*<ylinkinfi:  tramp  is  of  the  same  hopeless  order,  and 
has  the  same  injured  conviction  on  him  that  you  were 
born  to  whatever  you  possess,  and  never  did  anything  to 
get  it ;  but  he  is  of  a  less  audacious  disposition.  He  will 
stop  before  your  gate,  and  say  to  his  female  companion, 
with  an  air  of  constitutional  humility  and  propitiation, — 
to  edify  any  one  who  may  be  within  hearing  behind  £. 
blind  or  bush, — "This  is  a  sweet  spot, — ain't  it?  L. 
lovelly  spot  !  And  I  wonder  if  they'd  give  two  poor 
footsore  travellers  like  me  and  you  a  drop  of  fresh  water 
out  of  such  a  pretty  gen-teel  crib  ?  We'd  take  it  wery 
koind  on  'em,  wouldn't  us  ?  —  wery  koind,  upon  my 
word,  us  would."  He  has  a  quick  sense  of  a  dog  in  the 
vicinity,  and  will  extend  his  modestly  injured  propitia- 
tion to  the  dog  chained  up  in  your  yard  ;  remarking,  as 
he  slinks  at  the  yard  gate,  Ah  !  You,  are  a  foine  breed 
o'  dog,  too,  and  you  ain't  kep  for  nothink  !  I'd  take  it 
wery  koind  o'  your  master  if  he'd  elp  a  traveller  and  his 
woife,  as  envies  no  gentlefolk  theii  good  fortun,  wi'  £. 
bit  o'  your  broken  wittles.  He'd  never  know  the  want 
of  it,  nor  more  would  you.  Don't  bark  like  that  at  poor 
persons  as  never  done  you  no  arm  ;  the  poor  is  down- 
trodden and  broke  enough  without  that  ;  O  don't  !  " 
He  generally  heaves  a  prodigious  sigh  in  moving  away, 
and  always  looks  up  the  lane  and  down  the  lane,  and  up 
the  road  and  down  the  road,  before  going  on. 

Both  of  these  orders  of  tramp  are  of  a  very  robust 
*  habit  ;  let  the  hard-working  labourer  at  whose  oottage 
door  they  prowl  and  beg  have  the  ague  never  so  badly, 
these  tramps  are  sure  to  be  in  good  health. 

There  is  another  kind  of  tramp,  whom  you  encounter 
this  bright  summer  day, — say,  on  a  road  with  the  sea- 
breeze  making  its  dust  lively,  and  sails  of  ships  in  the 
blue  distance  beyond  the  slope  of  Down.  As  you  walk 
enjoyingly  on,  you  descry  in  the  perspective,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  steep  hill  up  which  your  way  lies,  a  figure  that 
appears  to  be  sitting  airily  on  a  gate,  whistling  in  a  cheer- 
ful and  disengaged  manner.  As  you  approach  nearer  to 
it,  you  observe  the  figure  to  slide  down  from  the  gate, 
to  desist  from  whistling,  to  uncock  its  hat,  to  become 
tender  of  foot,  to  depress,  its  head  and  elevate  its 
shoulders,  and  to  present  all  the  characteristics  of  pro- 
found despondency.  Arriving  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
and  coming  close  to  the  figure,  vou  observe  it  to  be  the 
MM  *  Vol.  is 


386 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


figure  of  a  shabby  young  man.  He  is  moving  painfully 
forward,  in  the  direction  in  which  you  are  going,  and  his 
mind  is  so  preoccupied  with  his  misfortunes  that  he  is 
not  aware  of  your  approach  until  you  are  close  upon  him 
at  the  hill-foot.  When  he  is  aware  of  you,  you  discover 
him  to  be  a  remarkably  well-behaved  young  man,  and  a 
remarkably  well-spoken  young  man.  You  know  him  to 
be  well-behaved  by  his  respectful  manner  of  touching 
his  hat ;  you  know  him  to  be  well-spoken  ^y  his  smooth 
manner  of  expressing  himself.  He  says,  in  a  jflowing, 
confidential  voice,  and  without  punctuation,  **  I  ask  your 
pardon  sir  but  if  you  would  excuse  the  liberty  of  being 
so  addressed  upon  the  public  Iway  by  one  who  is  almost 
reduced  to  rags  though  it  as  not  always  been  so  and  by 
no  fault  of  his  own  but  through  ill  elth  in  his  family  and 
many  unmerited  sufferings  it  would  be  a  great  obligation 
sir  to  know  the  time."  You  give  the  well-spoken  young 
man  the  time.  The  well-spoken  young  man,  keeping 
well  up  with  you,  resumes  :  I  am  aware  sir  that  it  is  a 
liberty  to  intrude  a  further  question  on  a  gentleman 
walking  for  his  entertainment  but  might  I  make  so  bold 
as  ask  the  favour  of  the  way  to  Dover  sir  and  about  the 
distance?"  You  inform  the  well-spoken  young  man 
that  the  way  to  Dover  is  straight  on,  and  the  distance 
some  eighteen  miles.  The  well  spoken  young  man  oe- 
comes  greatly  agitated.  **  In  the  condition  to  which  I 
am  reduced,"  says  he,  "I  could  not  ope  to  reach  Dover 
before  dark  even  if  my  shoes  were  in  a  state  to  take  me 
there  or  my  feet  were  in  a  state  to  old  out  over  the  flinty 
road  and  were  not  on  the  bare  ground  of  which  any 
gentleman  has  the  means  to  satisfy  himself  by  looking 
sir  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  speaking  to  you  ?  "  As  the 
well-spoken  young  man  keeps  so  well  up  with  you  that 
you  can't  prevent  his  taking  the  liberty  of  speaking  to 
you,  he  goes  on,  with  fluency  :  "  Sir  it  is  not  begging" 
that  is  my  intention  for  I  was  brought  up  by  the  best  of 
mothers  and  begging  is  not  my  trade  I  should  not  know 
sir  how  to  follow  it  as  a  trade  if  such  were  my  shameful 
wishes  for  the  best  of  mothers  lon^  taught  otherwise 
and  in  the  best  of  omes  though  now  reduced  to  take  the 
present  liberty  on  the  Iway  sir  my  business  was  the  law- 
stationering  and  I  was  favourably  known  to  the  Solictor- 
General  the  Attorney-General  the  majority  of  the  Judges 
and  the  ole  of  the  legal  profession  but  through  ill  elth 
in  my  family  and  the  treachery  of  a  friend  for  whom  I 
became  security  and  he  no  other  than  my  own  wife's 
brother  the  brother  of  my  own  wife  I  was  cast  forth  with 
my  tender  partner  and  three  young  children  not  to  beg  for 
I  will  sooner  die  of  deprivation  but  to  make  my  way  to 
the  seaport  town  of  Dover  vvhere  I  have  a  relative  in  re- 
spect not  only  that  will  assist  me  but  that  would  trust  me 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLER. 


887 


with  untold  gold  sir  in  appier  times  and  hare  this  calam- 
ity fell  upon  me  I  made  for  my  amusement  when  I  little 
thought  that  I  should  ever  need  it  excepting  for  my  air 
this" — here  the  well-spoken  young  man  put  his  hand 
into  his  breast — this  comb  I  Sir  I  implore  you  in  the 
name  of  charity  to  purchase  a  tortoise-shell  comb  which 
is  a  genuine  article  at  any  price  that  your  humanity  may 
put  upon  it  and  may  the  blessings  of  a  ouseless  family 
awaiting  with  beating  arts  the  return  of  a  husband  and 
a  father  from  Dover  upon  the  cold  stone  seats  of  London 
Bridge  ever  attend  you  sir  may  I  take  the  liberty  of 
speaking  to  you  I  implore  you  to  buy  this  comb  I "  By 
this  time,  being  a  reasonably  good  walker,  you  will  have 
been  too  much  for  the  well-spoken  young  man,  who  will 
stop  short,  and  express  his  disgust  and  his  want  of  breath 
in  a  long  expectoration,  as  you  leave  him  behind. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  same  v/alk,  on  the  same  bright 
summer  day,  at  the  corner  of  the  next  little  town  or  vil- 
lage, you  may  find  another  kind  of  tramp,  embodied  in 
the  persons  of  a  most  exemplary  couple  whose  only  im- 
providence appears  to  have  been  that  they  spent  the 
last  of  their  litile  All  on  soap.  They  are  a  man  and 
woman,  spotless  to  behold, — John  Anderson,  with  the 
froot  on  his  short  smock-frock  instead  of  his  pow,"  at- 
tended by  Mrs.  Anderson.  John  is  over-ostentatious  of 
the  frost  upon  his  raiment,  and  wears  a  curious,  and, 
you  would  say,  an  almost  unnecessary  demonstration  of 
girdle  of  white  linen  wound  about  his  waist, — a  girdle 
snowy  as  Mrs.  Anderson's  apron.  This  cleanliness  was 
the  expiring  effort  of  the  respectable  couple,  and  nothing 
then  remained  to  Mr.  Anderson  but  to  get  chalked  upon 
his  spade,  in  snow-w^hite  copy-book  characters,  hungky  ! 
and  to  sit  down  here.  Yes  :  one  thing  more  remained 
to  Mr.  Anderson, — his  character  ;  Monarchs  could  not 
deprive  him  of  his  hard-earned  character.  Accordingly, 
as  you  come  up  with  this  spectacle  of  virtue  in  distress, 
Mrs.  Anderson  rises,  and  with  a  decent  curtsey  presents 
for  your  consideration  a  certificate  from  a  Doctor  of  Di- 
vinity, the  reverend  the  Vicar  of  Upper  Dodgington,  who 
informs  his  Christian  friends,  and  all  whom  it  may  con- 
cern, that  the  bearers,  John  Anderson  and  lawful  wife- 
are  persons  to  whom  you  cannot  be  too  liberal.  This  be- 
nevolent pastor  omitted  no  work  of  his  hands  to  fit  the 
good  couple  out,  for  with  half  an  eye  you  can  recognize 
his  autograph  on  the  spade. 

Another  class  of  tramp  is  a  man,  the  most  valuable 
part  of  whose  stock  in  trade  is  a  highly  perplexed  de- 
meanor. He  is  got  up  like  a  countryman,  and  you  will 
often  come  upon  the  poor  fellow,  while  he  is  endeavoring 
to  decipher  the  inscription  on  a  milestone, — quite  a  fruit- 
less endeavor,  for  he  cannot  read.    He  asks  your  pardon. 


388  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


he  truly  does  (he  is  very  slow  of  speech,  this  tramp,  and 
he  looks  in  a  bewildered  way  all  round  the  prospect 
while  he  talks  to  you) ;  but  all  of  us  shold  do  as  we  wold 
be  done  by,  and  he'll  take  it  kind  if  you'll  put  a  power 
man  in  the  right  road  fur  to  jine  his  eldest  son  as  has 
broke  his  leg  bad  in  the  masoning,  and  is  in  this  heere 
Orspit'l  as  is  wrote  down  by  Squire  Pouncerby's  own 
hand  as  wold  not  tell  a  lie  fur  no  man.  He  then  pro- 
duces from  under  his  dark  frock  (being  always  very  slow 
and  perplexed)  a  neat  but  worn  old  leathern  purse,  from 
which  he  takes  a  scrap  of  paper.  On  this  scrap  of  paper 
is  written,  by  Squire  Pouncerby,  of  The  Grove,  Please 
to  direct  the  Bearer,  a  poor  but  very  worthy  man,  to  the 
Sussex  County  Hospital,  near  Brighton," — a  matter  of 
some  difficulty  at  the  moment,  seeing  that  the  request 
comes  suddenly  upon  you  in  the  depths  of  Hertfordshire. 
The  more  you  endeavor  to  indicate  where  Brighton  is, — 
when  you  have  v/ith  the  greatest  difficulty  remembered, 
— the  less  the  devoted  father  can  be  made  to  comprehend, 
and  the  more  obtusely  he  stares  at  the  prospect ;  where> 
by,  being  reduced  to  extremity,  you  recommend  the 
faithful  parent  to  begin  by  going  to  St.  Alban's,  and 
present  him  with  half  a  crown.  It  does  him  good,  no 
doubt,  but  scarcely  helps  him  forward,  since  you  find 
him  drunk  that  same  evening  in  the  wheelwright's  saw- 
pit  under  the  shed  where  the  felled  trees  are,  opposite 
the  sign  of  the  Three  Jolly  Hedgers. 

But  the  most  vicious,  by  far,  of  all  the  idle  tramps  is 
the  tramp  who  pretends  to  have  been  a  gentleman. 

Educated,"  he  writes  from  the  village  beer-shop  in 
pale  ink  of  a  ferruginous  complexion, — ''educated  at 
Trin.  Coll.  Cam., — nursed  in  the  lap  of  affluence, — once, 
in  my  small  way,  the  patron  of  the  Muses,"  &c.,  &c., 
&c.  ;  surely  a  sympathetic  mind  will  not  withhold  a 
trifle  to  help  him  on  to  the  market  town  where  he  thinks 
of  giving  a  Lecture  to  the  fruges  consumer e  nati  on  things 
in  general  ?  This  shameful  creature,  lolling  about  hedge 
tap-rooms  in  his  ragged  clothes,  now  so  far  from  being 
black  that  they  look  as  if  they  never  can  have  been 
black,  is  more  selfish  and  insolent  than  even  the  savage 
tramp.  He  would  sponge  on  the  poorest  boy  for  a 
farthing,  and  spurn  him  when  he  had  got  it ;  he  would 
interpose  (if  he  could  get  anything  by  it)  between  the 
baby  and  the  mother's  breast.  So  much  lower  than  the 
company  he  keeps  for  his  maudlin  assumption  of  being 
higher,  this  pitiless  rascal  blights  the  summer  road  as 
he  maunders  on  between  the  luxuriant  hedges  ;  where 
(to  my  thinking)  even  the  wild  convolvulus  and  rose 
and  sweetbrier  are  the  worse  for  his  going  by,  and  need 
time  to  recover  from  the  taint  of  him  in  the  air. 

The  young  fellows  who  trudge  along  barefoot,  five  or 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELlEK.  389 


Six  together,  their  boots  slung  over,  their  shoulders,  their 
shabby  bundles  under  their  arms,  their  sticks  newly  cut 
from  some  roadside  wood,  are  not  eminently  prepossess- 
ing, but  are  much  less  objectionable.  There  is  a  tramp- 
fellowship  among  them.  They  pick  one  another  up  at 
resting-stations,  and  go  on  in  companies.  They  always 
go  at  a  fast  swing, — though  they  generally  limp,  too  ; 
and  there  is  invariably  one  of  the  company  who  has 
much  ado  to  keep  up  with  the  rest.  They  generally  talk 
about  hotses,  and  any  other  means  of  locomotion  than 
walking  ;  or  one  of  the  company  relates  some  recent  ex- 
periences of  the  road, — which  are  always  disputes  and 
difficulties.  As,  for  example  :  "  So,  as  I'm  a  standing 
at  the  pump  in  the  market,  blest  if  there  don't  come  up 
a  Beadle,  and  he  ses,  '  Mustn't  stand  here,'  he  ses. 

*  Why  not  ?'  I  ses.  *  No  beggars  allow^ed  in  this  town,' 
he  ses.  *  Who's  a  beggar?'  I  ses.  *  You  are,' he  ses. 
'  Who  ever  see  me  beg  ?  Did  you  f '  I  ses.  '  Then  you're 
a  tramp,'  he  ses.  *  I'd  rather  be  that  than  a  Beadle,'  I 
ses."  (The  company  express  great  approval.)  '  Would 
you?'  he  ses  to  me.     *  Yes,  I  would,'  I  ses  to  him. 

*  Well,'  he  ses,  *  anyhow,  get  out  of  this  town.'  *  Why, 
blow  your  little  town  !'  1  ses,  '  who  wants  to  be  in  it? 
Wot  does  your  little  dirty  town  mean  by  comin'  and 
stickin'  itself  in  the  road  to  anywhere?  Wliy  don't  you 
get  a  shovel  and  a  barrer,  and  clear  your  town  out  o'  peo- 
ple's way  ? ' "  (The  company  expressing  the  highest 
approval  and  laughing  aloud,  they  all  go  dov/n  the  hill.) 

Then  there  are  the  tramp  handicraft  men.  Are  they 
not  all  over  England  in  this  midsummer  time?  Where 
does  the  lark  sing,  the  corn  gro\^',  the  mill  turn,  the 
river  run,  and  they  are  not  among  the  lights  and  shadows, 
tinkering,  chair -mending,  umbrella  -  mending,  clock- 
mending,  knife-grinding  ?  Surely  a  pleasant  thing,  if 
we  were  in  that  condition  of  life,  to  grind  our  way 
through  Kent,  Sussex,  and  Surrey.  For  the  first  oix 
weeks  or  so  we  should  see  the  sparks  we  ground  off 
fiery  bright  against  a  background  of  green  wheat  and 
green  leaves.  A  little  later,  and  the  ripe  harvest  would 
pale  our  sparks  from  red  to  yellow,  until  w^e  got  the  dark 
«ewly  turned  land  for  a  background  again,  and  they 
<s^ere  red  once  more.  By  that  time  we  should  have 
ground  our  way  to  the  sea-cliffs  and  the  whir  of  our 
wheel  would  be  lost  in  the  breaking  of  the  waves.  Our 
next  variety  in  sparks  would  be  derived  from  contrast 
with  the  gorgeous  medley  of  colours  in  the  autumn 
woods,  and,  by  the  time  we  had  ground  our  way  round 
to  the  healthy  lands  between  Heigate  and  Croydon, 
doing  a  prosperous  stroke  of  business  all  along,  we 
should  show  like  a  little  firework  in  the  light  frosty  air, 


390 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


And  be  the  next  best  thing  to  the  blacksmith's  forge. 
Very  agreeable,  too,  to  go  on  a  chair-mending  tour. 
What  judges  we  should  be  of  rushes,  and  how  know 
ingly  (with  a  sheaf  and  a  bottomless  chair  at  our  back) 
we  should  lounge  on  bridges,  looking  over  at  osier-beds  f 
Among  all  the  innumerable  occupations  that  cannot 
possibly  be  transacted  without  the  assistance  of  lookers- 
on,  chair-mending  may  take  a  station  in  the  first 
rank.  Vfhen  we  sat  down  with  our  backs  against  the 
barn  or  the  public  house,  and  began  to  mend,  whai 
a  sense  of  popularity  would  grow  upon  us  !  When  all 
the  children  came  to  look  at  us,  and  the  tailor,  and  the 
general  dealer,  and  the  farmer  who  had  been  giving  a 
small  order  at  the  little  sadler's,  and  the  groom  from  the 
great  house,  and  the  publican,  and  even  the  two  skittle- 
players  (and  here  note  that,  howsoever  busy  all  the  rest 
of  village  humankind  may  be,  there  wiil  always  be  two 
people  with  leisure  to  play  at  skittles,  wherever  village 
skittles  are),  what  encouragement  would  be  on  us  to 
plait  and  weave  !  No  one  looke  at  us  while  we  plait 
and  weave  these  words.  Clock- mending  again.  Except 
for  the  slight  inconvenience  of  carrying  a  clock  under 
our  arm,  and  the  monotony  of  making  the  bell  go  when- 
ever we  came  to  a  human  habitation,  what  a  pleasant 
privilege  to  give  a  voice  to  the  dumb  cottage  clock,  and 
set  it  talking  to  the  cottage  family  again  I  Likewise  we 
foresee  great  interest  in  going  round  by  the  park  plan- 
tations, under  the  overhanging  boughs  (liares,  rabbits, 
partridges,  and  pheasants  scudding  like  mad  across  and 
across  the  checkered  ground  before  us),  and  so  over  the 
park  ladder,  and  through  the  wood,  until  we  came  to 
the  Keeper's  lodge.  Then  would  the  Keeper  be  discov- 
erable at  his  door,  in  a  deep  nest  of  leaves,  smoking  his 
pipe.  Then,  on  our  accosting  him  in  the  way  of  our 
trade,  would  he  call  to  Mrs.  Keeper,  respecting  t'  ould 
clock  "  in  the  kitchen.  Then  would  Mrs.  Keeper  ask  us 
into  the  lodge,  and  on  due  examination  we  should  offer 
to  make  a  good  job  of  it  for  eighteen-pence  ;  which  offer, 
being  accepted,  would  set  us  tinkling  and  clinking 
among  the  chubby,  awe-struck  little  Keepers  for  an 
hour  and  more.  So  completely  to  the  family's  satisfac- 
tion would  we  achieve  our  work,  that  tlie  Keeper  would 
mention  how  that  there  was  something  wrong  with  the 
bell  of  the  turret  stable  clock  up  at  the  Hall  ;  and  that, 
if  we  thought  good  of  going  up  to  the  housekeeper  on 
the  chance  of  that  job  too,  why,  he  would  take  us. 
Then  should  we  go  among  the  branching  oaks  and  the 
deep  fern,  by  silent  ways  of  mystery  known  to  the 
Keeper,  seeing  the  herd  glancing  here  and  there  as  we 
went  along,  until  we  came  to  the  old  Hall,  solemn  and 
ffXsmd.    Under  the  Terrace  Flower  Garden,  and  round 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  391 


by  the  stables,  would  the  Keeper  take  us  in  ;  and  as  we 
passed  we  should  observe  how  spacious  and  stately  the 
stables,  and  how  fine  the  painting  of  the  horses'  names 
over  their  stalls,  and  how  solitary  all,  the  family  being 
in  London.  Then  should  we  find  ourselves  presented  to 
the  housekeeper,  sitting,  in  hushed  state,  at  needle- work 
in  a  bay-window,  looking  out  upon  a  mighty  grim  red- 
brick quadrangle,  guarded  by  stone  lions  disres pec'. fully 
throwing  somersaults  over  the  escutcheons  of  the  noble 
family.  Then,  our  services  accepted  and  we  insinuated 
with  a  candle  into  the  stable  turret,  we  should  find  it  to 
be  a  mere  question  of  pendulum,  but  one  that  would 
hold  us  until  dark.  Then  should  we  fall  to  work,  with 
a  general  impression  of  Ghosts  being  about,  and  of  pic- 
tures in-doors  that  of  a  certainty  came  out  of  their 
frames  and  "  walked,"  if  the  family  would  only  own  it. 
Then  should  we  work  and  work,  until  the  day  gradually 
turned  to  dusk,  and  even  until  the  dusk  gradually  turned 
to  dark.  Our  task  at  length  accomplished,  we  should 
be  taken  into  an  enormous  servants'  hall,  and  there  re- 
galed with  beef  and  bread,  and  powerful  ale.  Then, 
paid  freely,  we  should  be  at  liberty  to  go,  and  should  be 
told  by  a  pointing  helper  to  keep  round  over  yonder  by 
the  blasted  ash,  and  so  straight  through  the  woods,  till 
we  should  see  the  town  lights  right  before  us.  Then, 
feeling  lonesome,  should  we  desire,  upon  the  whole,  that 
the  ash  had  not  been  blasted,  or  that  the  helper  had  had 
the  manners  not  to  mention  it.  However,  we  should 
keep  on,  all  right,  till  suddenly  the  stable-bell  would 
strike  ten  in  the  dolefullest  way,  quite  chilling  our 
blood,  thoufifh  we  had  so  lately  taug-ht  him  how  to  acquit 
himself.  Then,  as  we  went  on,  should  we  recall  old  sta 
ries,  and  dimly  consider  what  it  would  be  most  advisable 
to  do,  in  the  event  of  a  tall  figure,  all  in  white,  with 
saucer  eyes,  coming  up  and  saying,  I  want  you  to  come 
to  a  churchyard,  and  mend  a  church  clock.  Follow 
me  !  "  Then  should  we  make  a  burst  to  get  clear  of  the 
trees,  and  should  soon  find  ourselves  in  the  open,  with 
the  town  lights  bright  ahead  of  us.  So  should  we  lie 
that  night  at  the  ancient  sign  of  the  Crispin  and  Cris^ 
panus,  and  rise  early  next  morning  to  be  betimes  ob 
tramp  again. 

Bricklayers  often  tramp  in  twos  and  threes,  lying  by 
night  at  their  *'  lodges/'  which  are  scattered  all  over  the 
country.  Bricklaying  is  another  of  the  occupations  that 
can  by  no  means  be  transacted  in  rural  parts  without 
the  assistance  of  spectators, — of  as  many  as  can  be  con- 
vened. In  thinly  peopled  spots,  I  have  known  brick- 
layers on  tramp,  coming  up  with  bricklayers  at  work,  to 
be  so  sensible  of  the  indispensability  of  lookers-on,  that 
they  themselves  have  set  up  in  that  capacity,  and  have 


392  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


been  unable  to  subside  into  the  acceptance  of  a  proffered 
share  in  the  job  for  two  or  three  days  together.  Some- 
times the  ''navvj"  on  tramp,  with  an  extra  pair  of  half- 
boots  over  his  shoulder,  a  bag,  a  bottle,  and  a  can,  will 
take  a  similar  part  in  a  job  of  excavation,  and  will  look 
at  it,  without  engaging  in  it,  until  all  his  money  is  gone. 
The  current  of  my  uncommercial  pursuits  caused  me 
only  last  summer  to  want  a  little  body  of  workmen  for 
a  certain  spell  of  work  in  a  pleasant  part  of  the  country  ; 
iind  I  was  at  one  time  honored  with  the  presence  of  as 
many  as  seven-and-twenty  who  were  looking  at  six. 

Who  can  be  familiar  with  any  rustic  highway  in  the 
summer-time,  without  storing  up  knowledge  of  the  many 
tramps  who  go  from  one  oasis  of  town  or  village  to  an- 
other, to  sell  a  stock  in  trade  apparently  not  worth  a  shil- 
ling when  sold  ?  Shrimps  are  a  favourite  commodity  for 
this  kind  of  speculation,  and  so  are  cakes  of  a  soft  and 
spongy  character,  coupled  with  Spanish  nuts  and  brandy 
balls.  The  stock  is  carri^'d  on  the  head  in  a  basket,  and 
between  the  head  and  the  basket  are  the  trestles  on 
which  the  stock  is  displayed  at  trading  times.  Fleet  of 
foot,  but  a  careworn  class  of  tramp  this,  mostly  ;  with  a 
certain  stiffness  of  neck,  occasioned  by  much  anxious 
balancing  of  baskets  ;  and  also  with  along,  Chinese  sort 
of  eye,  which  an  overweighted  forehead  would  seem  to 
have  squeezed  into  that  form. 

On  the  hot,  dusty  roads  near  seaport  towns  and  great 
rivers,  behold  the  tramping  Soldier.  And  if  you  should 
happen  never  to  have  asked  yourself  whether  his  uni- 
form is  suited  to  his  -work,  perhaps  the  poor  fellow's  ap- 
pearance, as  he  comes  distressfully  towards  you,  with 
his  absurdly  tight  jacket  unbuttoned,  his  neck -gear  in 
his  hand,  and  his  legs  well  chafed  by  his  trousers  of 
baize,  may  suggest  the  personal  inquiry,  how  you  think 
you  would  like  it.  Much  better  the  tramping  Sailor, 
although  his  cloth  is  somewhat  too  thick  for  land  serv- 
ice. But  why  the  tramping  merchant-mate  should  put 
on  a  black  velvet  waistcoat,  for  a  chalky  country,  in  the 
dog-days,  is  one  of  the  great  secrets  of  nature  that  will 
never  be  discovered. 

I  have  my  eye  upon  a  piece  of  Kentish  road,  bordered 
on  either  side  by  a  wood,  and  having  on  one  hand,  be- 
tween the  road-dust  and  the  trees,  a  skirting  patch  of 
grass.  Wild-flowers  grow  in  abundance  on  this  spot,  and 
it  lies  high  and  airy,  with  the  distant  river  stealing  stead- 
ily away  to  the  ocean  like  a  man's  life.  To  gain  the  mile- 
stone here,  which  the  moss,  primroses,  violets,  blue-bells,, 
and  wild  roses  wpuld  soon  render  illegible  but  for  peer- 
ing travellers  pushing  them  aside  with  their  sticks,  you 
must  come  up  a  steep  hill,  come  which  way  you  may^ 
So  all  the  tramps  with  carts  or  caravans — the  Gypsy- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  393 


tramp,  the  Show-tramp,  the  Cheap-Jack — find  it  impos- 
sible to  resist  the  temptations  of  the  place,  and  all  turn 
the  horse  loose,  when  they  come  to  it,  and  boil  the  pot. 
Bless  the  place  I  I  love  the  ashes  of  the  vagabond  fires 
that  have  scorched  its  grass  I  What  tramp  children  do 
I  see  here,  attired  in  a  handful  of  rags,  making  a  gymna- 
sium of  the;  shafts  of  the  cart,  making  a  feather-bed  of 
the  flints  and  brambles,  making  a  toy  of  the  hobbled  old 
horse,  who  is  not  much  more  like  a  horse  than  any  cheap 
toy  would  be?  Here  do  I  encounter  the  cart  of  mats  and 
brooms  and  baskets, — with  all  thoughts  of  business 
given  to  the  evening  wind, — with  the  stew  made  and 
being  served  out, — with  Cheap  Jack  and  Dear  Jill  strik- 
ing soft  music  out  of  the  plates  that  are  rattled  like  war- 
like cymbals  when  put  up  for  auction  at  fairs  and  mar- 
kets,— their  minds  so  influenced  (no  doubt)  by  the  melody 
of  the  nightingales,  as  they  begin  to  sing  in  the  woods 
behind  them,  that,  if  I  were  to  propose  to  deal,  they 
would  sell  me  anything  at  cost  price.  On  this  hallowed 
ground  has  it  been  my  happy  privilege  (let  me  whisper 
it)  to  behold  the  White-haired  Lady  with  the  pink  eyes 
eating  meat-pie  with  the  Giant ;  while,  by  the  hedge- 
side,  on  the  box  of  blankets  which  I  knew  contained  the 
snakes,  were  set  forth  the  cups  and  saucers  and  the  tea- 
pot. It  was  on  an  evening  in  August  that  I.  chanced  upon 
this  ravishing  spectacle  ;  and  I  noticed  that,  w^hereas 
Ihe  Giant  reclined  half  concealed  beneath  the  overhang- 
ing boughs,  and  seemed  indifferent  to  Nature,  the  white 
hair  of  the  gracious  Lady  streamed  free  in  the  breath  of 
evening,  and  her  pink  eyes  found  pleasure  in  the  land- 
scape. I  heard  only  a  single  sentence  of  her  uttering, 
yet  it  bespoke  a  talent  of  modest  repartee.  The  ill-man- 
nered Giant — accursed  be  his  evil  race  ! — had  interrupted 
the  Lady  in  some  remark  ;  and,  as  I  passed  that  enchant- 
ed corner  of  the  wood,  she  gently  reproved  him,  with 
the  words,  **  Now,  Cobby  "  ; — Cobby  I  so  short  a  name  1 
— **  aint  one  fool  enough  to  talk  at  a  time 

Within  appropriate  distance  of  this  magic  ground, 
though  not  so  near  it  as  that  the  song  trolled  from  tap 
or  bench  at  door  can  invade  its  woodland  silence,  is  a 
little  hostelry  which  no  man  possessed  of  a  penny  was 
ever  known  to  pass  in  warm  weather.  Before  its  en- 
trance are  certain  pleasant  trimmed  lines  ;  likewise  a 
cool  well,  with  so  musical  a  bucket-handle  that  its  fall 
upon  the  bucket-rim  will  make  a  horse  prick  up  his  ears 
and  neigh,  upon  the  droughty  road,  half  a  mile  off.  This 
is  a  house  of  great  resort  for  haymaking  tramps,  and 
harvest  tramps,  insomuch  that  they  sit  within,  drinking 
their  mugs  of  beer  ;  their  relinquished  scythes  and  reap- 
ing-hooks glare  out  of  the  open  windows,  as  if  the  whole 
establishment  were  a  family  war-coach  of  Ancient  Brit- 


394  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ons.  Later  in  the  season  the  whole  'country-side,  for 
miles  and  miles,  will  swarm  with  hopping?  tramps.  They 
come  in  families,  men,  women,  and  children,  every  fam- 
ily provided  with  a  bundle  of  bedding,  an  iron  pot,  a 
number  of  babies,  and  too  often  with  some  poor  sick 
creature  quite  unfit  for  the  rough  life,  for  whom  they 
suppose  the  smell  of  the  fresh  hop  to  be  a  remedy. 
Many  of  these  hoppers  are  Irish,  but  many  come  from 
London.  They  crowd  all  the  roads,  and  camp  under  all 
the  hedges  and  on  all  the  scraps  of  common  land,  and 
live  among  and  upon  the  hops  until  they  are  all  picked, 
and  the  hop-gardens,  so  beautiful  through  the  summer, 
look  as  if  they  had  been  laid  waste  by  an  invading  army. 
Then  there  is  a  vast  exodus  of  tramps  out  of  the  coun- 
try ;  and  if  you  ride  or  drive  round  any  turn  of  any  road, 
at  more  than  a  footpace,  you  will  be  bewildered  to  find 
that  you  have  charged  into  the  bosom  of  fifty  families, 
and  that  there  are  splashing  up  all  around  you,  in  the  ut- 
most prodigality  of  confusion,  bundles  of  bedding,  ba- 
bies, iron  pots,  and  a  good-humoured  multitude  of  both 
sexes  and  all  ages,  equally  divided  between  perspiration 
and  intoxication. 


XIL 

IMlbormgh  Town, 

It  lately  happened  that  I  found  myself  rambling  about 

the  scenes  among  which  my  earliest  days  were  passed, 
scenes  from  which  I  departed  when  I  was  a  child,  and 
which  I  did  not  revisit  until  I  was  a  man.  This  is  no 
uncommon  chance,  but  one  that  befalls  some  of  us  any 
day  ;  perhaps  it  may  not  be  quite  uninteresting  to  com- 
pare notes  with  the  reader  respecting  an  experience  so 
familiar,  and  a  journey  so  uncommercial. 

I  call  my  boyhood's  home  (and  I  feel  like  a  Tenor  in  an 
English  Opera  when  I  mention  it)  DuUborough.  Most 
of  us  come  from  DuUborough  who  come  from  a  country 
town. 

As  I  left  DuUborough  in  the  days  when  there  were  no 
rflilroads  in  the  land.  I  left  in  a  sta^e-coach.  Through 
all  the  years  that  have  since  passed,  have  I  ever  lost  th6 
smell  of  the  damp  straw  in  which  I  was  packed—  like 
game — and  forwarded,  carriage  paid,  to  the  Cross  Keys, 
Wood  Street,  Cheapside,  London  ?  There  was  no  other 
inside  passenger,  and  I  consumed  my  sandwiches  in  soli- 
tude and  dreai'iness,  and  it  rained  hard  all  the  way,  and  I 
thought  life  sloppier  than  I  had  expected  to  find  it. 

With  this  tender  remembrance  upon  me,  I  was  cava, 
lierly  shunted  back  into  DuUborough,  the  other  day,  by 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVBLLER. 


395 


train.  My  ticket  hod  been  previously  collected,  like  my 
taxes  ;  and  my  shining  new  portmanteau  had  had  a  great 
plaster  stuck  upon  it,  and  I  had  been  defied  by  act  of 
Parliament,  to  offer  an  objection  to  anything  that  was  done 
to  it,  or  me,  under  a  penalty  of  not  less  than  forty  shil- 
lings or  more  than  five  pounds,  compoundable  for  a  term 
of  imprisonment.  When  I  had  sent  my  disfigured  prop- 
erty on  to  the  hotel,  I  began  to  look  about  me  ;  and  the 
first  discovery  I  made  was,  that  the  Station  had  swal- 
lowed up  the  playing  field. 

It  was  gone,  the  two  beautiful  hawthorn-trees,  the 
hedge,  the  turf,  and  all  those  buttercups  and  daisies,  had 
given  place  to  the  stoniest  of  jolting  roads  ;  while  beyond 
the  Station  an  ugly  dark  monster  of  a  tunnel  kept  its  jaws 
open,  as  if  it  had  swallowed  them,  and  were  ravenous  for 
more  destruction.  The  coach  that  had  carried  me  away 
was  melodiously  called  Timpson's  Blue-Eyed  Maid,  and 
belonged  to  Timpson,  at  the  coach-oflBce  up  street ;  the 
locomotive  engine  that  had  brought  me  back  was  called 
severely  No.  97,  and  belonged  to  S.  E.  R.  and  was  spitting 
ashes  and  hot  water  over  the  blighted  ground. 

When  I  had  been  let  out  at  the  platform  door,  like  a 
prisoner  whom  his  turnkey  grudgingly  released,  I  looked 
in  again  over  the  low  wall  at  the  scene  of  departed  glo- 
ries. Here,  in  the  haymaking  time,  had  I  been  delivered 
from  the  dungeons  of  Seringapatam,  an  immense  pile  (of 
haycock),  by  my  countrymen,  the  victorious  British  (boy 
next  door  and  his  two  cousins),  and  had  been  recognized 
with  ecstasy  by  my  affianced  one  (Miss  Green),  who  had 
come  all  the  way  from  England  (second  house  in  the  ter- 
race) to  ransom  me  and  marry  me.  Here  had  I  first 
heard  in  confidence,  from  one  whose  father  was  greatly 
connected,  being  under  government,  of  the  existence  of 
a  terrible  banditti,  called  "  The  Radicals,'*  whose  princi- 
ples were,  that  the  Prince  Regent  wore  stays,  and  that 
nobody  had  a  right  to  any  salary,  and  that  the  army  and 
navy  ought  to  be  put  down, — horrors  at  which  I  trembled 
in  my  bed,  after  supplicating  that  the  Radicals  might  be 
speedily  taken  and  hanged.  Here,  too,  had  we,  the  small 
boys  of  Boles's,  had  that  cricket-match  against  the  small 
boys  of  Coles's,  when  Boles  and  Coles  had  actually  met 
upon  the  ground  and  when,  instead  of  instantly  hitting 
out  at  one  another  with  the  utmost  fury,  as  we  had  all 
hoped  and  expected,  those  sneaks  had  said  respectively, 
''I  hope  Mrs.  Boles  is  well,"  and,  "I  hope  Mrs.  Coles 
and  the  baby  are  doing  charmingly."  Could  it  be  thatj 
after  all  this  and  much  more,  the  Playing-field  was  a 
Station,  and  No.  97  expectorated  boiling  water  and  red- 
hot  cinders  on  it,  and  the  whole  belonged  by  Act  of  Par- 
liament to  S.  E.  R.  ? 

As  it  could  be  and  was,  I  left  the  place  with  a  heavy 


396 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fieart  for  a  walk  all  over  the  town.    And  first  of  Timp. 

son's  up  street.  When  I  departed  from  Dull  borough  in 
the  strawy  arms  of  Timpson's  Blue-Eyed  Maid,  Timpsou's 
was  a  moderate-sized  coach-office  (in  fact,  a  little  coach- 
office),  with  an  oval  transparency  in  the  window,  which 
looked  beautiful  by  night,  representing  one  of  Timpson's 
coaches  in  the  act  of  passing  a  milestone  on  the  London 
road  with  great  velocity,  com.pletely  full  inside  and  out, 
and  all  the  passengers  dressed  in  the  first  style  of  fash- 
ion, and  enjoying  themselves  tremendously.  I  found  no 
such  place  as  Timpson's  now, — no  such  bricks  and 
rafters,  not  to  mention  the  name, — no  such  edifice  on  the 
teeming  earth.  Pickford  had  come  and  knocked  Timp- 
son's  down.  Pickford  had  not  only  knocked  Timpson's 
down,  but  had  knocked  two  or  three  houses  down  on 
each  side  of  Timpson's,  and  then  had  knocked  the  whole 
into  one  great  establishment,  with  a  pair  of  big  gates,  in 
and  out  of  which  his  (Pickford's)  wagons  are,  in  these 
days,  always  rattling,  with  their  drivers  sitting  up  so 
high  that  they  look  in  at  the  second-floor  windows  of  the 
old-fashioned  houses  in  the  High  Street  as  they  shake 
the  town.  I  have  not  the  honour  of  Pickford's  acquaint' 
ance,  but  I  felt  that  he  had  done  me  an  injury,  not  to 
say  committed  an  act  of  boyslaughter,  in  running  over 
my  childhood  in  this  rough  manner ;  and  if  ever  I  meet 
Pickford  driving  one  of  his  own  monsters,  and  smoking 
a  pipe  the  while  (which  is  the  custom  of  his  men),  he 
shall  know  by  the  expression  of  my  eye,  if  it  catches 
his,  that  there  is  something  wrong  between  us. 

Moreover,  1  felt  that  Pickford  had  no  right  to  come 
rushing  into  Dullborough  and  deprive  the  town  of  a 
public  picture.  He  is  not  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  When 
ne  took  down  the  transparent  stage-coach,  he  ought  to 
lhave  given  the  town  a  transparent  van.  With  a  gloomy 
^conviction  that  Pickford  is  wholly  utilitarian  and  unim- 
aginative, I  proceeded  on  my  way. 

It  is  a  mercy  I  have  not  a  red  and  green  lam.p  and  a 
night-bell  at  my  door ;  for  in  my  very  young  days  I  was 
taken  to  see  so  many  lyings-in  that  I  wonder  I  escaped 
becoming  a  professional  martyr  to  them  in  after  life.  I 
suppose  I  had  a  very  sympathetic  nurse,  with  a  large 
circle  of  married  acquaintance.  However  that  was,  as  I 
continued  my  walk  through  Dullborough,  I  found  many 
houses  to  be  solely  associated  in  my  mind  with  this  par- 
ticular interest.  At  one  little  green-grocer's  shop,  down 
certain  steps  from  the  street,  I  remembered  to  have 
waited  on  a  lady  who  had  had  four  children  (I  am  afraid 
to  write  fisre,  though  I  fully  believe  it  was  five)  at  a 
birth.  This  meritorious  woman  held  quite  a  Reception 
in  her  room  on  the  morning  when  I  was  introduced 
there  ;  and  the  sight  of  the  house  brought  vividly  to  my 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


397 


mind  how  the  four  (five)  deceased  young  people  lay,  side 
by  side,  on  a  clean  cloth  on  a  chest  of  drawers  ;  remind- 
ing me  by  a  homely  association,  which  I  suspect  their 
complexion  to  have  assisted,  of  pigs'  feet  as  they  are 
usually  displayed  at  a  neat  tripe -shop.  Hot  caudle  was 
handed  round  on  the  occasion  ;  and  1  further  remem- 
bered, as  I  stood  contemplating  the  green-grocer's,  that 
a  subscription  was  entered  into  among  the  company, 
which  became  extremely  alarming  to  my  consciousness 
of  having  pocket-money  on  my  person.  This  fact  being 
known  to  my  conductress,  whoever  she  was,  I  was 
earnestly  exhorted  to  contribute,  but  resolutely  declined  ; 
therein  disgusting  the  company,  who  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  I  must  dismiss  all  expectations  of  going  to 
heaven. 

How  does  it  happen  that,  when  all  else  is  change 
wherever  one  goes,  there  yet  seem,  in  every  place,  to  be 
some  few  people  who  never  alter?  As  the  sight  of  the 
green -grocer's  house  recalled  these  trivial  incidents  of 
long  ago,  the  identical  green-grocer  appeared  on  the 
steps,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  leaning  his 
shoulder  against  the  door-post,  as  my  childish  eyes  had 
seen  him  many  a  time  ;  indeed,  there  was  his  old  mark  on 
the  door-post  yet,  as  if  his  shadow  had  become  a  fixture 
there.  It  was  he  himself ;  he  might  formerly  have  been 
an  old-looking  young  man,  or  he  might  now  be  a  young- 
looking  old  man,  but  there  he  was.  In  walking  along 
the  street  I  had  as  yet  looked  in  vain  for  a  familiar  face, 
or  even  a  transmitted  face  ;  here  was  the  very  green- 
grocer who  had  been  weighing  and  handling  baskets  on 
the  morning  of  the  reception.  As  he  brought  with  him 
a  dawning  remembrance  that  he  had  had  no  proprietary 
interest  in  those  babies,  I  crossed  the  road,  and  accosted 
him  on  the  subject.  He  was  not  in  the  least  excited  or 
gratified,  or  in  any  way  roused  by  the  accuracy  of  my 
recollection,  but  said.  Yes,  summut  out  of  the  common — 
he  didn't  remember  how  many  it  was  (as  if  half  a  dozen 
babies  either  way  made  no  difference) — had  happened  to 
a  Mrs.  What's-her-name,  as  once  lodged  there — but  he 
didn't  call  it  to  mind  particular.  Xettled  by  this  phleg- 
matic conduct,  I  informed  him  that  I  had  left  the  town 
when  I  was  a  child.  He  slowly  returned,  quite  unsoft- 
(Bned,  and  not  without  a  sarcastic  kind  of  complacency. 
Had  I  ?  Ah  !  And  did  I  find  it  had  got  on  tolerably 
welL  without  me  ?  Such  is  the  difference  (I  thought, 
^hen  1  had  left  him  a  few  hundred  yards  behind,  and 
was  by  so  much  in  a  better  temper)  between  going  away 
from  a  place  and  remaining  in  it.  I  had  no  right,  I 
reflected,  to  be  angry  with  the  green-grocer  for  his  want 
of  interest.    I  was  nothing  to  him ;  whereas  he  was  the 


398  WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


town,  the  cathedral,  the  tridge,  the  river,  my  childhood, 
and  a  large  slice  ♦f  my  life,  to  me. 

Of  conrse.  the  town  had  shrunk  fearfully  since  I  was 
a  child  there.  I  had  entertained  the  impression  that  the 
High  Street  was  at  least  as  vvide  as  Regtnt  Street,  Lon- 
don,  or  the  Italian  Boulevard  at  Paris.  I  found  it  lit- 
tle hetter  than  a  lane.  There  was  a  public  clock  in  it, 
which  I  had  supposed  to  be  the  finest  clock  in  the  world  ; 
whereas  it  now  turned  out  to  be  as  inexpressive,  moon- 
faced, and  weak  a  clock  as  ever  I  saw.  It  belonged  to  a 
Town  Hall,  where  I  had  seen  an  Indian  (who  I  now  sup- 
pose wasn't  an  Indian)  swallow  a  sword  (which  I  now 
suppose  he  didn't).  The  edifice  had  appeared  to  me  in 
those  days  so  glorious  a  structure,  that  I  had  set  it  up 
in  my  mind  as  the  model  on  which  the  Genie  of  the 
Lamp  built  the  palace  for  Aladdin.  A  mean  little  brick 
heap,  like  a  demented  chapel,  with  a  few  yawning  per- 
sons in  leather  gaiters,  and  in  the  last  extremity  for 
something  to  do,  lounging  at  the  door  with  their  hands 
in  their  pockets,  and  calling  themselves  a  Corn  Ex- 
change ! 

The  Theatre  was  in  existence,  I  found,  on  asking  the 
fishmonger,  who  had  a  compact  show  of  stock  in  his 
window,  consisting  of  a  sole  and  a  quart  of  shrimps  ; 
and  I  resolved  to  comfort  my  mind  by  going  to  look  at 
it.  Richard  the  Third,  in  a  very  uncomfortable  cloak, 
had  first  appeared  to  me  there,  and  had  made  my  heart 
leap  with  terror  by  backing  up  against  the  stage-box  in 
which  I  was  posted,  while  struggling  for  life  against  the 
virtuous  Richmond.  It  was  within  those  walls  that  I 
had  learnt,  as  from  a  page  of  English  history,  how  that 
wicked  King  slept  in  war-time  on  a  sofa  much  too  short 
for  him,  and  how  fearfully  his  conscience  troubled  his 
boots.  There,  too,  had  I  first  seen  the  funny  country- 
man—bat countryman  of  noble  principles,  in  a  flowered 
waistcoat — crunch  up  his  little  hat,  and  throw  it  on  the 
ground,  and  pull  olf  his  coat,  saying,  "  Dom  thee,  squire, 
coom  on  with  thy  fistes  then  ! "  At  which  the  lovely 
young  woman  who  kept  company  with  him  (and  who 
went  out  gleaning,  in  a  narrow  white  muslin  apron  with 
five  beautiful  bars  of  five  different  coloured  ribbons 
across  it)  was  so  frightened  for  his  sake,  that  she  fainted 
away.  Many  wondrous  secrets  of  nature  had  I  come  to 
the  knowledge  of  in  that  sanctuary  ;  of  which  not  the 
least  terrific  were,  that  the  witches  in  Macbeth  bore  an 
awful  resemblance  to  the  Thanes  and  other  proper  in» 
habitants  of  Scotland  ;  and  that  the  good  King  Duncan 
couldn't  rest  in  his  grave,  but  was  constantly  coming  out 
of  it  and  calling  himself  somebody  else.  To  the  Theatre, 
therefore,  I  repaired  for  consolation.  But  I  found  very 
little,  for  it  was  in  a  bad  and  a  declining  way.   A  dealer 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  399 


in  wine  and  bottled  beer  had  already  squeezed  his  trade 
into  the  box-oflBce  ;  and  the  theatrical  money  was  taken 
— whence  it  came — in  a  kind  of  meat-safe  in  the  passage. 
The  dealer  in  wine  and  bottled  beer  must  have  insinuated 
himself  under  the  stage  too  ;  for  he  announced  that  he 
had  various  descriptions  of  alcoholic  drinks  in  the 
wood/'  and  thertf  was  no  possible  stowage  for  the  wood 
auywhere  else.  Evidently,  he  was  by  degrees  eating  the 
establishment  away  to  the  core,  and  would  soon  have 
sole  possession  of  it.  It  was  To  Let,  and  hopelessly  so 
for  its  old  purposes  ;  and  there  had  been  no  entertain- 
ment within  its  walls  for  a  long  time,  except  a  Panorama  ; 
and  even  that  had  been  announced  as  pleasingly  in- 
structive," and  I  know  too  well  the  fatal  meaning  and 
the  leaden  import  of  those  terrible  expressions.  No, 
there  was  no  comfort  in  the  Theatre.  It  was  mysterious- 
ly gone,  like  my  own  youth.  Unlike  my  own  youth,  it 
might  be  coming  back  some  day  ;  but  there  was  little 
promise  of  it. 

As  the  town  was  placarded  with  references  to  the 
Dullborough  Mechanics'  Institution,  I  thought  I  would 
go  and  look  at  that  establishment  next.  There  had  been 
no  such  thing  in  the  town,  in  tay  young  day,  and  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  its  extreme  prosperity  might  have 
brought  adversity  upon  the  Drama.  I  found  the  Insti- 
tution with  some  diflSculty,  and  should  scarcely  have 
known  that  I  had  found  it,  if  I  had  judged  from  its 
external  appearance  only  ;  but  this  was  attributable  to 
its  never  having  been  finished,  and  having  no  front  ; 
consequently,  it  led  a  modest  and  retired  existence  up  a 
stable-yard.  It  was  (as  I  learnt,  on  inquiry)  a  most  flour- 
ishing Institution,  and  of  the  highest  benefit  to  the 
town, — two  triumphs  which  I  was  glad  to  understand 
were  not  at  all  impaired  by  the  seeming-  drawbacks  thai 
no  mechanics  belonged  to  it,  and  tliat  it  was  steeped  in 
debt  to  the  chimney-pots.  It  had  a  large  room,  which 
was  approached  by  an  infirm  step-ladder  ;  the  builder 
having  declined  to  construct  the  intended  staircase  with- 
out a  present  payment  in  cash,  which  Dullborough 
(though  profoundly  appreciative  of  the  Institution)  seem- 
ed unaccountably  bashful  about  subscribing.  The  large 
room  had  cost — or  would,  when  paid  for — five  hundred 
pounds ;  and  it  had  more  mortar  in  it  and  more  echoes  than 
one  might  have  expected  to  get  for  the  money.  It  was 
fitted  up  with  a  platform,  and  the  usual  lecturing  tools, 
including  a  large  black-board  of  a  menacing  appearance. 
On  referring  to  lists  of  the  courses  of  lectures  that  bad 
been  given  in  this  thriving  Hall,  I  fancied  I  detected  a 
shyness  in  admitting  that  human  nature  when  at  leisure 
has  any  desire  whatever  to  be  relieved  and  diverted,  and 
a  furtive  sliding-in  of  any  poor  makeweight  piece  of 


400  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


amusement,  shamefacedly  and  edgewise.  Thus,  I  ob- 
served that  it  was  necessary  for  the  members  to  be 
knocked  on  the  head  with  Gas,  Air,  Water,  Food,  the 
Solar  System,  the  Geological  periods.  Criticism  on  Mil- 
ton, the  Steam-engine,  John  Bunyan,  and  Arrow-Head- 
ed Inscriptions,  before  they  might  be  tickled  by  those 
unaccountable  choristers,  the  negro  singers  in  the  court 
costume  6f  the  reign  of  George  the  Second.  Likewise, 
that  they  must  be  stunned  by  a  weighty  inquiry  whether 
there  was  internal  evidence  in  Shakespeare's  works  to 
prove  that  his  uncle  by  the  mother's  side  lived  for  some 
years  at  Stoke  Newington,  before  they  were  brought  to 
by  a  Miscellaneous  Concert.  But  indeed  the  masking  of 
entertainment,  and  pretending  it  was  something  felse,-— 
as  people  mask  bedsteads  when  they  are  obliged  to  have 
them  in  sitting-rooms,  and  make  believe  that  they  are 
bookcases,  sofas,  chests  of  drawers,  anything  rather  than 
bedsteads, — was  manifest  even  in  the  pretence  of  dreari- 
ness that  the  unfortunate  entertainers  themselves  felt 
obliged  in  decency  to  put  forth  when  they  came  here. 
One  very  agreeable  professional  singer,  who  travelled 
with  two  professional  ladies,  knew  better  than  to  intro- 
duce either  of  those  ladies  to  sing  the  ballad  "  Comin' 
through  the  Rye,"  without  prefacing  it  himself  with 
some  general  remarks  on  wheat  and  clover  ;  and  even 
then  he  dared  not  for  his  life  call  the  song  a  song,  but 
disguised  it  in  the  bill  as  an  Illustration.''  In  the  lib- 
rary, also, — fitted  with  shelves  for  three  thousand  books, 
and  containing  upwards  of  one  hundred  and  seventy 
(presented  copies  mostly),  seething  their  edges  in  damp 
plaster, — there  was  such  a  painfully  apologetic  return  of 
62  offenders  who  had  read  Travels,  Popular  Biography, 
and  mere  Fiction  descriptive  of  the  aspirations  of  the 
hearts  and  souls  of  mere  human  creatures  like  them- 
selves  ;  and  such  an  elaborate  parade  of  2  bright  exam- 
ples who  had  had  down  Euclid  after  the  day'st)ccupation 
and  confinement ;  and  3  who  had  had  down  Metaphysics 
after  ditto  ;  and  1  who  had  had  down  Theology  after 
ditto  ;  and  4  who  had  worried  Grammar,  Political  Econ- 
omy, Botany,  and  Logarithms  all  at  once  after  ditto  ; 
that  I  suspected  the  boasted  class  to  be  one  man,  who 
had  been  hired  to  do  it. 

Emerging  from  the  Mechanics'  Institution,  and  con- 
tinuing my  walk  about  the  town,  I  still  noticed  every- 
where the  prevalence,  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  of  this 
custom  of  putting  the  natural  demand  for  amusement 
out  of  sight,  as  some  untidy  housekeepers  put  dust,  and 
pretending  that  it  was  swept  away.  And  yet  it  was 
ministered  to  in  a  dull  and  abortive  manner  by  all  who 
made  this  feint.  Looking  in  at  what  is  called  in  DuU- 
Dorough    the  serious  bookseller's,"  where  in  my  child- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  401 


hood  I  had  studied  the  faces  of  numbers  of  gentlemen 
depicted  in  rostrums  with  a  gaslight  on  each  side  of  them, 
and  casting  my  eyes  over  the  open  pages  of  certain 
printed  discourses  there,  I  found  a  vast  deal  of  aiming  at 
jocosity  and  dramatic  effect,  even  in  them, — yes,  verily, 
even  on  the  part  of  one  very  wrathful  expounder,  who  bit- 
terly anathematized  a  poor  little  Circus.  Similarly,  in  the 
reading  provided  for  the  young  people  enrolled  in  the 
Lasso  of  Love,  and  other  excellent  unions,  I  found  the 
writers  generally  under  a  distressing  sense  that  they 
must  start  (at  all  events)  like  story-tellers,  and  delude 
the  young  persons  into  the  belief  that  they  were  going 
to  be  interesting.  As  I  looked  in  at  this  window  for 
twenty  minutes  by  the  clock,  I  am  in  a  position  to  offei 
a  friendly  remonstrance — not  bearing  on  this  particular 
point — to  the  designers  and  engravers  of  the  pictures  in 
those  publications.  Have  they  considered  the  aw^ful 
consequences  likely  to  flow  from  their  representations 
of  Virtue  ?  Have  they  asked  themselves  the  question, 
whether  the  terrific  prospect  of  acquiring  that  fearful 
chubbiness  of  head,  unwieldiness  of  arm,  feeble  disloca- 
tion of  leg,  crispiness  of  hair,  and  enormity  of  shirt-col- 
lar, which  they  represent  as  inseparable  from  Goodness, 
may  not  tend  to  confirm  sensitive  waverers  in  Evil  ?  A 
most  impressive  example  (if  I  had  believed  it)  of  what  a 
Dustman  and  a  Sailor  may  come  to  when  they  mend 
their  ways  was  presented  to  me  in  this  same  shop  win- 
dow. When  they  were  leaning  (they  were  intimate 
friends)  against  a  post,  drunk  and  reckless,  with  surpass- 
ingly bad  hats  on,  and  their  hair  over  their  foreheads, 
they  were  rather  picturesque,  and  looked  as  if  they 
might  be  agreeable  men  if  they  would  not  be  beasts. 
But  when  they  had  got  over  their  bad  propensities,  and 
when,  as  a  consequence,  their  heads  had  swelled  alarm- 
ingly, their  hair  had  got  so  curly  that  it  lifted  their 
blown-out  cheeks  up,  their  coat-cuffs  w^ere  so  long  that 
they  never  could  do  any  work,  and  their  eyes  were  so 
wide  open  that  they  never  could  do  any  sleep,  they  pre- 
sented a  spectacle  calculated  to  plunge  a  timid  nature 
into  the  depths  of  Infamy. 

But  the  clock  that  had  so  degenerated  since  I  saw^  it 
last  admonished  me  that  I  had  stayed  here  long  enough  ; 
and  I  resumed  my  w^alk. 

I  had  not  gone  fifty  paces  along  the  street  when  I  was 
suddenly  brought  up  by  the  sight  of  a  man  who  got  out 
of  a  little  phaei/On  at  the  doctor's  door,  and  w^ent  into 
the  doctor's  house.  Immediately  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  scent  of  trodden  grass,  and  the  perspective  of  years 
opened,  and  at  the  end  of  it  was  a  little  likeness  of  this 
man  keeping  a  wicket,  and  I  said,  *'God  bless  my  soul  \ 
Joe  SpecKS  I " 


402  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Through  many  chaoges  and  much  work,  I  had  pre- 
served a  tenderness  for  the  memory  of  Joe,  forasmuch 
as  we  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Roderick  Random 
together,  and  had  believed  him  to  be  no  ruflBan,  but  an 
ingenuous  and  engaging  hero.  Scorning  to  ask  the  boy 
left  in  the  phaeton  whether  it  was  really  Joe,  and  scorn- 
ing even  to  read  the  brass  plate  on  the  door, — so  sure 
was  I, — I  rang  the  bell,  and  informed  the  servant-maid 
that  a  stranger  sought  audience  of  Mr.  Specks.  Into  a 
room,  half  surgery,  half  study,  I  was  shown  to  await  his 
coming  ;  and  I  found  it,  by  a  series  of  elaborate  acci- 
dents, bestrewn  with  testimonies  to  Joe.  Portrait  of 
Mr.  Specks,  bust  of  Mr.  Specks,  silver  cup  from  grateful 
patient  to  Mr.  Specks,  presentation  sermon  from  local 
clergyman,  dedication  poem  from  local  poet,  dinner-card 
from  local  nobleman,  tract  on  balance  of  power  from 
local  refugee,  inscribed,  Hommage  de  Vauteur  d  Specks. 

When  my  old  schoolfellow  came  in,  and  I  informed 
him  with  a  smile  that  I  was  not  a  patient,  he  seemed 
rather  at  a  loss  to  perceiv*e  any  reason  for  smiling  in  con- 
nection with  that  fact,  and  inquired  to  wnat  was  he  to 
attribute  the  honour  ?  I  asked  him,  with  another  smile, 
could  he  remember  me  at  all  ?  He  had  not  (he  said)  that 
pleasure.  I  was  beoinning  to  have  but  a  poor  opinion  of 
Mr.  Specks,  when  he  said  reflectively,  ''And  yet  there's 
a  something  too."  Upon  that  I  saw  a  boyish  light  in  his 
eyes  that  looked  well ;  and  I  asked  him  if  he  could  in- 
form me,  as  a  stra^^ger  who  desired  to  know,  and  had  not 
the  means  of  reference  at  hand,  what  the  name  of  the 
young  lady  was  who  married  Mr.  Random.  Upon,  that 
he  said,  **Narcissa"  ;  and,  after  staring  for  a  moment, 
called  me  by  my  name,  shook  me  by  the  hand,  and 
melted  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  Why,  of  coarse,  you'll 
remember  Lucy  Green,"  he  said,  after  we  had  talked  a 
little.  "  Of  course,"  said  I.  Whom  do  you  think  she 
married  said  he.  You? I  hazarded.  Me,"  said 
Specks;  and  you  shall  see  her."  So  I  saw  her;  and 
she  was  fat,  and  if  all  the  hay  in  the  world  had  been 
heaped  upon  her,  it  could  scarcely  have  altered  her  face 
more  than  Time  had  altered  it  from  my  remembrance  of 
the  face  that  had  once  looked  dovv^n  upon  me  into  the 
fragrant  dungeons  of  Serin gapatam.  But  when  her 
youngest  child  came  in  after  dinner  (for  I  dined  with 
them,  and  jve  had  no  other  company  than  Specks,  Junior, 
Barrister-at-law,  who  went  away,  as  soon  as  the  cloth  was 
removed,  to  look  after  the  young  lady  to  whom  he  was 
going  to  be  married  next  week),  I  saw  again,  in  that  little 
daughter,  the  little  face  of  the  hayfield  unchanged,  and 
it  quite  touched  my  foolish  heart.  We  talked  immense- 
ly. Specks  and  Mrs.  Specks  and  1 ;  and  we  spoke  of  our 
old  selves  as  though  oar  old  selves  were  dead  and  gone. 


TnE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


403 


and  indeed,  indeed  they  were, — dead  'and  gone  as  tlie 
playing-field  that  Ijad  become  a  wilderness  of  rusty  iron, 
and  the  property  of  S.  E.  R. 

Specks,  hov/ever,  illuminated  Dullborough  with  the 
rays  of  interest  that  I  wanted,  and  should  otherwise  have 
miboevi  in  it,  and  linked  its  present  to  its  past  with  a 
highly  agreeable  chain.  And  in  Specks's  society  I  had 
new  occasion  to  observe  what  I  had  before  noticed  in 
similar  communications  among  other  men.  All  the 
schoolfellows  and  others  of  old  whom  I  inquired  about 
had  either  done  superlatively  well  or  superlatively  ill, 
— had  either  become  uncertificated  bankrupts,  or  been 
felonious,  and  got  themselves  transported,  or  had  made 
great  hits  in  life,  and  done  wonders.  And  this  is  so 
commonly  the  case,  that  I  never  can  imagine  what  be- 
comes of  all  the  mediocre  people  of  people's  youth, — 
especially  considering  that  we  find  no  lack  of  the  species 
in  our  maturity.  But  I  did  not  propound  this  difficulty 
to  Specks,  for  no  pause  in  the  conversation  gave  me  an 
occasion.  Nor  could  I  discover  one  single  flaw  in  the 
good  doctor, — when  be  reads  this,  he  will  receive  in  a 
friendly  spirit  the  pleasantly  meant  record, — except  that 
he  had  forgotten  his  Roderick  Random,  and  that  he  con- 
founded Strap  with  Lieutenant  Hatchway,  who  never 
knew  Random,  howsoever  intimate  with  Pickles. 

When  I  went  alone  to  the  Railway  to  catch  my  train 
at  night  (Specks  had  meant  to  go  with  me,  but  w^as  inop- 
portunely called  out),  I  was  in  a  more  charitable  mood 
with  Dullborough  than  I  had  been  all  day  ;  and  yet  in  my 
heart  I  had  loved  it  all  day  too.  Ah  !  who  was  I  that 
I  should  quarrel  with  the  town  for  being  changed  to  me, 
when  I  myself  had  come  back  so  changed  to  it !  All  my 
early  readings  and  early  imaginations  dated  from  this 
place ;  and  I  took  them  away  so  full  of  innocent  con- 
struction and  guileless  belief,  and  I  brought  them  back 
so  worn  and  torn,  so  much  the  wiser  and  so  much  the 
worse  I 


XIII. 

Night  Walks. 

Some  years  ago  a  temporary  inability  to  sleep,  refem^ 
ble  to  a  distressing  impression,  caused'me  to  w^alk  about 
the  streets  all  night,  for  a  series  of  several  nights.  The 
disorder  might  have  taken  a  long  time  to  conquer,  if  it 
had  been  faintly  experimented  on  in  bed  ;  but  it  was 
soon  defeated  by  the  brisk  treatment  of  getting  up  di- 
rectly after  lying  down,  and  going  out,  and  coming  home 
tired  at  sunrise. 


404  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


In  the  oourse  of  those  nights  I  finished  my  education 
in  a  fair  amateur  experience  of  houselessness.  My  prin- 
cipal object  being  to  get  througii  the  night,  the  pursuit 
[)f  it  brought  me  into  sympathetic  relations  with  people 
who  have  no  other  object  every  night  in  the  year* 

The  month  was  March,  and  the  weather  damp,  cloudy, 
and  cold.  The  sun  not  rising  before  half  past  five,  the 
night  perspective  looked  sufficiently  long  at  half  past 
twelve,  which  was  about  my  time  for  confronting  it. 

The  restlessness  of  a  great  city,  and  the  way  in  which  - 
it  tumbles  and  tosses  before  it  can  get  to  sleep,  formed 
one  of  the  first  entertainments  offered  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  us  houseless  people.  It  lasted  about  two  hours. 
We  lost  a  great  deal  of  companionship  when  the  late 
public-houses  turned  their  lamps  out,  and  when  the  pot- 
men thrust  the  last  brawling  drunkards  into  the  street  ; 
but  stray  vehicles  and  stray  people  were  left  us  after 
that.  If  we  were  very  lucky,  a  policeman's  rattle  sprang, 
and  a  fray  turned  up  ;  but,  in  general,  surprisingly  lit- 
tle of  this  diversion  was  provided.  Except  in  the  Hay- 
market,  which  is  the  worst  kept  part  of  London,  and 
about  Kent  Street  in  the  Borough,  and  along  a  portion 
af  the  line  of  the  Old  Kent  Road,  the  peace  was  seldom 
violently  broken.  But  it  was  always  the  case  that  Lon- 
don, as  if  in  imitation  of  individual  citizens  belonging 
to  it,  had  expiring-tits  and  starts  or  restlessness.  After 
all  seemed  quiet,  if  one  cab  rattled  by,  half  a  dozen 
would  surely  follow  ;  and  Houselessness  even  observed 
that  intoxicated  people  appeared  to  be  magnetically  at- 
tracted towards,  each  other  ;  so  that  we  knew,  when  we 
saw  one  drunken  object  staggering  against  the  shutters 
of  a  shop,  that  another  drunken  object  would  stagger 
up,  before  five  minutes  were  out,  to  fraternize  or  fight 
with  it.  When  we  made  a  divergence  from  the  regular 
species  of  drunkard,  the  thin-armed,  puff-faced,  leaden- 
lipped  gin-drinker,  and  encountered  a  rarer  specimen  of 
a  more  decent  appearance,  fifty  to  one  but  that  specimen 
was  dressed  in  soiled  mourning.  As  the  street  expe- 
rience in  the  night,  so  the  street  experience  in  the  day  ; 
the  common  folk  who  come  unexpectedly  into  a  little 
property  come  unexpectedly  into  a  deal  of  liquor. 

At  length  these  flickering  sparks  would  die  away, 
worn  out, — the  last  veritable  sparks  of  waking  life 
trailed  from  some  late  pieman  or  hot-potato  man, — and 
London  would  sink  to  rest.  And  then  the  yearning  oj^ 
the  houseless  mind  would  be  for  any  sign  of  company, 
any  lighted  place,  any  movement,  anything  suggestive 
of  any  one  being  up, — nay,  even  so  much  as  awake,  for 
the  houseless  eye  looked  out  for  lights  in  windows. 

Walking  the  streets  under  the  pattering  rain,  House- 
lessness would  walk  and  walk  and  walk,  seeing  nothing- 


THE  L'NCOiVlMEKClAl.  TKAVELLER 


405 


but  the  interininable  tangle  of  streets,  save  at  a  comer, 
here  and  there,  twa  policemen  in  conversation,  or  the 
sergeant  or  inspector  looking  after  his  men.  Now  and 
then  in  the  night, — but  rarely, — Houselessness  would  be- 
come aware  of  a  furtive  head  peering  out  of  a  doorway 
a  few  yards  before  him,  and,  coming  up  with  the  head, 
would  find  a  man  standing  bolt  upright  to  keep  within 
the  doorw^ay's  shadow,  and  evidently  intent  upon  no  par- 
ticular service  to  society.  Under  a  kind  of  fascination, 
and  in  a  ghostly  silence  suitable  to  the  time,  Houseless- 
ness and  this  gentleman  would  eye  one  another  from 
head  to  foot,  and  so,  without  exchange  of  speech,  part 
mutually  suspicious.  Drip,  drip,  drip,  from  ledge  and 
coping,  splasli  from  pipes  and  water-spouts,  and  by  and 
by  the  houseless  shadow  would  fall  upon  the  stones  that 
pave  the  way  to  Waterloo  Bridge  ;  it  being  in  the  house« 
less  mind  to  have  a  halfpennyworth  of  excuse  for  say- 
ing "  Good  night  "  to  the  toll-keeper,  and  catching  a 
glimpse  of  his  fire.  A  good  fire  and  a  good  great-coat 
and  a  good  woollen  neck-shawl  were  comfortable  things 
to  see  in  conjunction  with  the  toll-keeper  ;  also  his  brisk 
wakefulness  was  excellent  company  when  he  rattled  the 
change  of  halfpence  down  upon  that  metal  table  of  his, 
like  a  man  who  defied  the  night,  with  all  its  sorrowful 
thoughts,  and  didn't  care  for  the  coming  of  dawn. 
There  was  need  of  encouragement  on  the  threshold  of 
the  bridge,  for  the  bridge  was  dreary.  The  chopped-up 
murdered  man  had  not  been  lowered  with  a  rope  over 
the  parapet  when  those  nights  were  ;  he  was  alive,  and 
slept  then  quietly  enough,  most  likely,  and  undisturbed 
by  any  dream  of  where  he  was  to  come.  But  the  river 
had  an  awful  look,  the  buildings  on  the  banks  w^ere 
mufiled  in  black  shrouds,  and  the  reflected  lights  seemed 
to  originate  deep  in  the  water,  as  if  the  spectres  of  sui- 
cides were  holding  them  to  show  where  they  went  down. 
The  wild  moon  and  clouds  were  as  restless  as  an  evil 
conscience  in  a  tumbled  bed,  and  the  very  shadow  of 
the  immensity  of  London  seemed  to  lie  oppressively 
upon  the  river. 

Between  the  bridge  and  the  two  great  theatres  there 
was  but  the  distance  of  a  few  hundred  paces,  so  the 
theatres  came  next.  Grim  and  black  within  at  night, 
those  great  dry  Wells,  and  lonesome  to  imagine,  with 
the  rows  of  faces  faded  out,  the  lights  extinguished,  and 
the  seats  all  empty.  One  would  think  that  nothing  in 
them  knew  itself  at  such  a  time  but  Yorick's  skull.  In 
one  of  my  night  walks,  as  the  church  steeples  were  shak- 
ing the  March  winds  and  rain  with  the  strokes  of  Four, 
I  passed  the  outer  boundary  of  one  of  these  great  deserts, 
and  entered  it.  With  a  dim  lantern  in  my  hand  I  groped 
my  well-known  way  to  the  stage,  and  looked  over  the 


406 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


orchestra — which  was  like  a  great  grave  dug  for  a  timQ 
of  pestilence — into  the  void  beyond.  A  dismal  caveri^ 
of  an  immense  aspect,  with  the  chandelier  gone  dead 
like  everything  else,  and  nothing  visible  through  mist 
and  fog  and  space  but  tiers  of  winding-sheets.  The 
ground  at  my  feet  wnere,  v/hen  last  there,  I  had  seen 
the  peasantry  of  Naples  dancing  among  the  vines,  reck- 
less of  the  burning  mountains  which  threatened  to  over-^ 
whelm  them,  was  now  in  possession  of  a  strong  serpent 
of  engine-hose,  watchfully  lying  in  wait  for  the  serpent 
Fire,  and  ready  to  fly  at  it  if  it  showed  its  forked  tongue. 
A  ghost  of  a  watchman,  carrying  a  faint  corpse  canale, 
haunted  the  distant  upper  gallery  and  flitted  away.  Re- 
tiring within  the  proscenium,  and  holding  my  light 
above  my  head  towards  the  rolled-up  curtain, — green  no 
more,  but  black  as  ebony, — my  sight  lost  itself  in  a 
gloomy  vault,  showing  faint  indications  in  it  of  a  ship- 
wreck of  canvas  and  cordage.  Methought  I  felt  much 
as  a  diver  might  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

In  those  small  hours  when  there  was  no  movement  in 
the  streets,  it  afforded  matter  for  reflection  to  take  New- 
gate in  the  way,  and,  touching  its  rough  stone,  to  think 
of  the  prisoners  in  their  sleep,  and  then  to  glance  in  at 
the  lodge  over  the  spiked  wicket,  and  see  the  fire  and 
light  of  the  watching  turnkeys  on  the  white  wall.  Not 
an  inappropriate  time,  either,  to  linger  by  that  wicked 
little  Debtor's  Door, — shutting  tighter  than  any  other 
door  one  ever  saw, — which  has  been  Death's  Door  to  so 
many.  In  the  days  of  the  uttering  of  forged  one-pound 
notes  by  people  tempted  up  from  the  country,  how  many 
hundreds  of  wretched  creatures  of  both  sexes — many 
quite  innocent — swung  out  of  a  pitiless  and  inconsistent 
world,  with  the  tower  of  yonder  Christian  church  of 
Saint  Sepulchre  monstrously  before  their  eyes  !  Is  there 
any  haunting  of  the  Bank  Parlour  by  the  remorseful 
souls  of  old  directors,  in  the  nights  of  these  later  days,  I 
wonder,  or  is  it  as  quiet  as  this  degenerate  Aceldama  of 
an  Old  Bailey  ? 

To  walk  on  to  the  Bank,  lamenting  the  good  old  times 
and  bemoaning  the  present  evil  period,  would  be  an  easy 
next  step,  so  I  would  take  it,  and  would  make  my  house- 
less  circuit  of  the  Bank,  and  give  a  thought  to  the  trea- 
sure within  ;  likewise  to  the  guard  of  soldiers  passing 
the  night  there,  and  nodding  over  the  fire.  Next  I  went 
to  Billingsgate,  in  some  hope  of  market  people  ;  but,  it 
proving  as  yet  too  early,  crossed  London  Bridge,  and  got 
down  by  the  waterside  on  the  Surrey  shore  among  the 
buildings  of  the  great  brewery.  There  was  plenty  going 
on  at  the  brewery  ;  and  the  reek,  and  the  smell  of  grains, 
and  the  rattling  of  the  plump  dray-horses  at  their  man- 
gers, were  capital  company.    Quite  refreshed  by  having 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


407 


miugled  with  this  good  society,  I  made  a  new  start  with 
a  new  heart,  setting* the  old  King's  Bench  Prison  before 
me  for  my  next  object,  and  resolving^,  when  I  should 
come  to  the  wall,  to  think  of  poor  Horace  Kinoh,  and 
the  Dry  Rot  in  men. 

A  very  curious  disease  the  Dry  Rot  in  men,  and  diffi- 
cult to  detect  the  beginning  of.  Ifc  had  carried  Horace 
Kinch  inside  the  wall  of  the  old  King's  Bench  Prison, 
and  it  had  carried  him  out  with  his  feet  foremost.  He 
was  a  likely  man  to  look  at,  in  the  prime  of  life,  well  to 
do,  as  clever  as  he  needed  to  be,  and  popular  among 
many  friends.  He  was  suitably  married,  and  had  healthy 
and  pretty  children.  But,  like  some  fair-looking  houses 
or  fair-looking  ships,  he  took  the  Dry  Rot.  The  first 
strong  external  revelation  of  the  Dry  Rot  in  men  is  a 
tendency  to  lurk  and  lounge  ;  to  be  at  street  corners 
without  intelligible  reason  ;  to  be  going  anywhere  when 
met ;  to  be  about  many  places  rather  than  at  any  ;  to  do 
nothing  tangible,  but  to  have  an  intention  of  performing 
a  variety  of  intangible  duties  to-morrow  or  the  day  after. 
When  this  manifestation  of  the  disease  is  observed,  the 
observer  will  usually  connect  it  with  a  vague  impression 
once  formed  or  received,  that  the  patient  was  living  a 
little  too  hard.  He  will  scarcely  have  had  leisure  to 
turn  it  over  in  his  mind,  and  form  the  terrible  suspicion 

Dry  Rot,"  when  he  will  notice  a  change  for  the  worse 
in  the  patient's  appearance, — a  certain  slovenliness  and 
deterioration,  which  is  not  poverty,  nor  dirt,  nor  intoxi- 
cation, nor  ill-health,  but  simply  Dry  Rot.  To  this  suc- 
ceeds a  smell  as  of  strong  waters,  in  the  morning  ;  to 
that,  a  looseness  respecting  money  ;  to  that,  a  stronger 
smell  as  of  strong  waters,  at  all  times  ;  to  that,  a  loose- 
ness respecting  everything ;  to  that,  a  trembling  of  the 
limbs,  somnolency,  misery,  and  crumbling  to  pieces.  As 
it  is  in  wood,  so  it  is  in  men.  Dry  Rot  advances  at  a 
compound  usury  quite  incalculable.  A  plank  is  found 
infected  with  it,  and  the  whole  structure  is  devoted. 
Thus  it  had  been  with  the  unhappy  Horace  Kinch,  lately 
buried  by  a  small  subscription.  Those  who  knew  him 
had  not  nigh  done  saying,  So  well  off,  so  comfortably 
established,  with  such  hope  before  him, — and  yet,  it  is 
feared,  with  a  slight  touch  of  Dry  Rot  ! "  when  lo  !  the 
man  was  all  Dry  Rot  and  dust. 

From  the  dead  wall  associated  on  those  houseless 
nights  with  this  too-common  story,  I  chose  next  to  wander 
by  Bethlehem  Hospital, — partly  because  it  lay  on  my  road 
to  Westminster,  partly  because  I  had  a  night  fancy  in 
my  head  which  could  be  best  pursued  within  sight  of  its 
walls  and  dome.  And  the  fancy  was  this  :  Are  not  the 
sane  and  the  insane  equal  at  night  as  the  sane  lie  a 
dreaming  ?   Are  not  all  of  us  outside  this  hospital 


408 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


who  dream,  more  or  less  in  the  condition  of  those  inside 
it,  every  night  of  our  lives?  Are  w^e  not  nightly  per 
suaded,  as  they  daily  are,  that  we  associate  preposterous- 
ly with  kings  and  queens,  emperors  and  empresses,  and 
notabilities  of  ail  sorts  ?  Do  we  not  nightly  jumble 
events  and  personages  and  times  and  places,  as  these  do 
daily?  Are  we  not  sometimes  troubled  by  our  own 
sleeping  inconsistencies,  and  do  we  not  vexedly  try  to 
account  for  them  or  excuse  them,  just  as  these  do  some 
times  in  respect  of  their  waking  delusions  ?  Said  an  af 
flicted  man  to  me,  when  I  was  last  in  a  hospital  like  this, 

Sir,  I  can  frequently  fly."  I  was  half  ashamed  to  re- 
flect that  so  could  I — by  night.  Said  a  woman  to  me  on 
the  same  occasion  :  Queen  Victoria  frequently  comes 
to  dine  with  me  ;  and  her  Majesty  and  I  dine  off  peaches 
and  maccaroni  in  our  night-gowns,  and  his  Royal  High- 
ness the  Prince  Consort  does  us  the  honour  to  make  a 
third  on  horseback  in  a  Field-Marshal's  uniform.'' 
Could  I  refrain  from  reddening  with  consciousness  when 
I  remembered  the  amazing  royal  parties  I  myself  had 
given  (at  night),  the  unaccountable  viands  I  had  put  on 
table,  and  my  extraordinary  manner  of  conducting 
myself  on  those  distinguished  occasions?  I  wonder  that 
the  great  master  who  knew  everything,  when  he  called 
Sleep  the  death  of  each  day's  life,  did  not  call  Dreams 
the  insanity  of  each  day's  sanity. 

By  this  time  I  had  left  the  Hospital  behind  me,  and 
was  again  setting  towards  the  river  ;  and  in  a  short 
breathing-space  I  was  on  Westminster  Bridge,  regaling 
my  houseless  eyes  with  the  external  walls  of  the  British 
Parliament, — the  perfection  of  a  stupendous  institution, 
I  know,  and  the  admiration  of  all  surrounding  nations 
and  succeeding  ages,  I  do  not  doubt,  but  perhaps  a  little 
the  better  now  and  then  for  being  pricked  up  to  its  work. 
Turning  off  into  Old  Palace  Yard,  the  Courts  of  Law 
kept  me  company  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ;  hinting  in 
low  whispers  what  numbers  of  people  they  were  keep- 
ing awake,  and  how  intensely  wretched  and  horrible 
they  were  rendering  the  small  hours  to  unfortunate 
suitors.  Westminster  Abbey  was  fine  gloomy  society  for 
another  quarter  of  an  hour  ;  suggesting  a  wonderful  pro- 
cession of  its  dead  among  the  dark  arches  and  pi11ars,each 
century  more  amazed  by  the  century  following  it  than 
by  all  the  centuries  going  before.  And  indeed,  in  those 
houseless  night  walks, — which  even  included  cemeteries 
where  watchmen  went  round  among  the  graves  at  stated 
times,  and  moved  the  telltale  handle  of  an  index  which 
recorded  that  they  had  touched  it  at  such  an  hour, — it 
was  a  solemn  consideration  what  enormous  hosts  of  dead 
belong  to  one  old  great  city,  and  how,  if  they  were 
laised  while  the  living  slept,  there  would  not  be  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLEK. 


409 


space  of  a  pin's  point  in  all  the  streets  and  ways  for  the 
living  to  come  out  into.  Not  only  that,  but  the  vast 
armies  of  dead  would  overflow  the  hills  and  valleys  be- 
yond the  city,  and  would  stretch  away  all  around  it,  God 
knows  how  far. 

When  a  church  clock  strikes  on  houseless  ears  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  it  may  be  at  first  mistaken  for  com- 
pany and  hailed  as  such.  But  as  the  spreading  circles 
of  vibration,  which  you  may  perceive  at  such  a  time 
with  great  clearness,  go  opening  out  for  ever  and  ever 
afterwards  widening  perhaps  (as  the  philosopher  has 
suggested)  in  eternal  space,  the  mistake  is  rectified,  and 
the  sense  of  loneliness  is  profounder.  Once — it  was 
after  leaving  the  Abbey,  and  turning  my  face  north — I 
came  to  the  great  steps  of  Saint  Martin's  Church  as  the 
clock  was  striking  three.  Suddenly  a  thing  that  in  a 
inoment  more  1  should  have  trodden  upon  without  see- 
ing rose  up  at  my  feet  with  a  cry  of  loneliness  and  house- 
^essness  struck  out  of  it  by  the  bell,  the  like  of  which  I 
never  heard.  We  then  stood  face  to  face,  looking  at 
one  another,  frightened  by  one  another.  The  creature 
was  like  a  beetle-browed,  hair-lipped  youth  of  twenty  ; 
and  it  had  a  loose  bundle  of  rags  on,  which  it  held  to- 
gether with  one  of  its  hands.  It  shivered  from  head  to 
foot,  and  its  teeth  chattered  ;  and  as  it  stared  at  me, — 
persecutor,  devil,  ghost,  whatever  it  thought  me, — 
it  made  with  its  whining  mouth  as  it  were  snapping  at 
me,  like  a  worried  dog.  Intending  to  give  this  ugly 
object  money,  I  put  out  my  hand  to  stay  it, — for  it  re- 
coiled as  it  whined  and  snapped, — and  laid  my  hand  upon 
its  shoulder.  Instantly  it  twisted  out  of  its  garment, 
like  the  young  man  in  the  New  Testament,  and  left  me 
standing  alone  with  its  rags  in  my  hand. 

Covent  Garden  Market,  v/hen  it  was  market  morning, 
was  wonderful  company.  The  great  wagons  of  cabbages, 
with  growers'  men  and  boys  lying  asleep  under  them, 
and  with  sharp  dogs  from  market-garden  neighbourhoods 
looking  after  the  whole,  were  as  good  as  a  party.  But 
one  of  the  worst  night  sights  I  know  in  London  is  to  be 
found  in  the  children  who  prowl  about  this  place  ;  who 
sleep  in  the  baskets,  fight  for  the  offal,  dart  at  any  object 
they  think  they  can  lay  their  thieving  hands  on,  dive  un- 
der the  carts  and  barrows,  dodge  the  constables,  and  are 
perpetually  making  a  blunt  pattering  on  the  pavement  of 
the  Piazza  with  the  rain  of  their  naked  feet.  A  painful 
and  unnatural  result  comes  of  the  comparison  one  i.-  forced 
to  institute  between  the  growth  of  corruption  as  dis- 
played in  the  so  much  improved  and  cared  for  fruits  of 
the  earth,  and  the  growth  of  corruption  as  displayed  in 
these  all  uncared  for  (except  inasmuch  as  ever  hunted) 
savages. 


410 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


There  was  early  coffee  to  be  got  about  Covent  Garden 
Market  ;  and  that  was  more  company — warm  company, 
too,  which  was  better.  Toast  of  a  very  substantial 
quality  was  likewise  procurable,  though  the  tousled- 
headed  man  who  made  it  in  an  inner  chamber  within  the 
coffee-room  hadn't  got  his  coat  on  yet,  and  was  so  heavy 
with  sleep,  that  in  every  interval  of  toast  and  coffee  he 
went  off  anew  behind  the  partition  into  complicated 
cross-roads  of  choke  and  snore,  and  lost  his  way  directly. 
Into  one  of  these  establishments  (among  the  earliest) 
near  Bow  Street,  there  came  one  morning,  as  i  sat  over 
my  houseless  cup,  pondering  where  to  go  next,  a  man 
in  a  high  and  long  snuff-coloured  coat,  and  shoes,  and, 
to  the  best  of  my  belief,  nothing  else  but  a  hat,  who 
took  out  of  his  hat  a  large  cold  meat  pudding, — a  meat 
pudding  so  large  that  it  was  a  very  tight  fit,  and  brought 
the  lining  of  the  hat  out  with  it.  This  mysterious  man 
was  known  by  his  pudding  ;  for,  on  his  entering,  the 
man  of  sleep  brought  him  a  pint  of  hot  tea,  a  small  loaf, 
and  a  large  knife  and  fork  and  plate.  Left  to  himself  in 
his  box,  he  stood  the  pudding  on  the  bare  table,  and  in- 
stead of  cutting  it,  stabbed  it  overhand,  with  the  knife, 
like  a  mortal  enemy  ;  then  took  the  knife  out,  wiped  it 
on  his  sleeve,  tore  the  pudding  asunder  with  his  fin- 
gers, and  ate  it  all  up.  The  remembrance  of  this  man 
with  the  pudding  remains  with  me  as  the  remembrance 
of  the  most  spectral  person  my  houselessness  encoun- 
tered. Twice  only  was  I  in  that  establishment,  and 
twice  I  saw  him  stalk  in  (as  I  should  say,  just  out  of  bed, 
and  presently  going  back  to  bed),  take  out  his  pudding, 
stab  his  pudding,  wipe  the  dagger,  and  eat  his  pudding 
all  up.  He  was  a  man  whose  figure  promised  cadaver- 
ousness,  but  who  had  an  excessively  red  face,  though 
shaped  like  a  horse's.  On  the  second  occasion  of  my 
seeing  him,  he  said  huskily,  to  the  man  of  sleep,  "  Am 
I  red  to-night?"'  *'You  are,"  he  uncompromisingly 
answered.  My  mother,"  said  the  spectre,  "  was  a  red- 
faced  woman  that  liked  drink,  and  I  looked  at  her  hard 
when  she  laid  in  her  coffin,  and  I  took  the  complexion." 
Somehow  the  pudding  seemed  an  unwholesome  pudding 
after  that,  and  I  put  myself  in  its  way  no  more. 

When  there  was  no  market,  or  when  I  wanted  variety, 
a  railway  terminus  with  the  morning  mails  coming  in 
was  remunerative  company.  But,  like  most  of  the  com- 
pany to  he  had  in  this  world,  it  lasted  only  a  very  short 
time.  The  station  lamps  would  burst  out  ablaze,  the 
porters  would  emerge  from  places  of  concealment,  the 
cabs  and  trucks  would  rattle  to  their  places  (the  post- 
office  carts  were  already  in  theirs),  and  finally  the  bell 
would  strike  up,  and  the  train  would  come  banging  in. 
But  there  were  few  passengers  and  little  luggage,  and 


l^HE  UNCOMMEKCIAL  TKAVELLEK. 


411 


everythiDg  scuttled  away  with  the  greatest  expedition. 
The  locomotive  post-offices,  with  their  great  nets, — as  if 
they  had  been  draft:ging  the  country  for  bodies, — would 
fly  open  as  to  their  doors,  and  would  disgorge  a  smell  of 
lamp,  an  exhausted  clerk,  a  guard  in  a  red  coat,  and 
their  bags  of  letters  ;  the  engine  would  blow  and  heave 
and  perspire,  like  an  engine  wiping  its  forehead,  and 
feaying  what  a  run  it  had  had  ;  and  within  ten  minutes 
ihe  lamps  were  out,  and  I  was  houseless  and  alone 
again. 

But  now  there  were  driven  cattle  on  the  high-road 
near,  wanting  (as  cattle  always  do)  to  turn  into  the  midst 
of  stone  walls,  and  squeeze  themselves  through  six  inches' 
width  of  iron  railing,  and  getting  their  heads  down 
(also  as  cattle  always  do)  for  tossing  purchase  at  quite  Im- 
aginary dogs,  and  giving  themselves  and  every  devoted 
creature  associated  with  them  a  most  extraordinary 
amount  of  unnecessary  trouble.  Now,  too,  the  conscious 
gas  began  to  grow  pale  with  the  knowledge  that  day- 
light was  coming,  and  straggling  workpeople  were  already 
in  the  streets  ;  and  as  walking  life  had  become  extin- 
guislied  with  the  last  pieman's  sparks,  so  it  began  to  be 
rekindled  with  the  fires  of  the  first  street-corner  break- 
fast-sellers. And  so,  by  faster  and  faster  degrees,  until 
the  last  degrees  were  very  fast,  the  day  came,  and  I  was 
tired,  and  could  sleep.  And  it  is  not,  as  I  used  to  think, 
going  home  at  such  times,  the  least  wonderful  thing  in 
London,  that,  in  the  real  desert  region  of  the  night,  the 
houseless  wanderer  is  alone  there.  I  knew  well  enough 
where  to  find  Vice  and  Misfortune  of  all  kinds,  if  I  had 
chosen  ;  but  they  were  put  out  of  sight,  and  my  house- 
lessness  had  many  miles  upon  miles  of  streets  in  which 
it  could  and  did  have  jts  own  solitary  way. 


XIV. 

Chambers. 

Having  occasion  to  transact  some  business  with  a  so» 
licitor  who  occupies  a  highly  suicidal  set  of  chambers 
in  Gray's  Inn,  I  afterwards  took  a  turn  in  the  large 
square  of  that  stronghold  of  Melancholy,  reviewing, 
with  congenial  surroundings,  my  experiences  of  Cham- 
bers. 

I  began,  as  was  natural,  with  the  Chambers  I  had  just 
left.  They  were  an  upper  set  on  a  rotten  staircase,  with 
a  mysterious  bunk  or  laulkhead  on  the  landing  outside 
them,  of  a  rather  nautical  and  Screw  Collier-like  appear- 
ance than  otherwise,  and  painted  an  intense  black.  Many 


412 


WORK8  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


dusty  years  have  passed  since  tlie  appropriation  of  this 
Davy  Jones's  locker  to  any  purpose  ;  and  during  the 
whole  period  within  the  memory  of  living  man,  it  has 
been  hasped  and  padlocked.  I  cannot  quite  satisfy  my 
mind  whether  it  was  originally  meant  for  the  reception 
of  coals  or  bodies,  or  as  a  place  of  temporary  security 
for  the  plunder  looted  "  by  laundresses  ;  but  I  incline 
to  the  last  opinion.  It  is  about  breast  high,  and  usually 
serves  as  a  bulk  for  defendants  in  reduced  circumstances 
to  lean  against  and  ponder  at,  when  they  come  on  the 
hopeful  errand  of  trying  to  make  an  arrangement  with- 
out money, — under  which  auspicious  circumstances  it 
mostly  happens  that  the  legal  gentleman  they  want  to 
see  is  much  engaged,  and  they  pervade  the  staircase  for 
a  considerable  period.  Against  this  opposing  bulk,  in 
the  absurdest  manner,  the  tomb-like  outer  door  of  the  so- 
licitor's chambers  (which  is  also  of  an  intense  black)  stands 
in  dark  ambush,  half  open  and  half  shut,  all  day.  The 
solicitor's  apartments  are  three  in  number  ;  consisting  of 
a  slice,  a  cell,  and  a  wedge.  The  slice  is  assigned  to  the 
two  clerks,  the  cell  is  occupied  by  the  principal,  and  the 
wedge  is  devoted  to  stray  papers,  old  game  baskets  from 
the  country,  a  washing-stand,  and  a  model  of  a  patent 
Ship's  Caboose  which  was  exhibited  in  Chancery  at  the 
commencement  of  the  present  century  on  an  application 
for  an  injunction  to  restrain  infringement.  At  about 
half  past  nine  on  every  week-day  morning,  the  younger 
of  the  two  clerks  (who,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  leads 
the  fashion  at  Pentonville  in  the  articles  of  pipes  and 
shirts)  may  be  found  knocking  the  dust  out  of  his  official 
door-key  on  the  bunk  or  locker  before  mentioned  ;  and 
so  exceedingly  subject  to  dust  is  his  key,  and  so  very 
retentive  of  that  superfluity,  that  in  exceptional  summer 
weather,  when  a  ray  of  sunlight  has  fallen  on  the  locker 
in  my  presence,  I  have  noticed  its  inexpressive  counte- 
nance to  be  deeply  marked  by  a  kind  of  Bramah  erysip- 
elas or  small-pox. 

This  set  of  chambers  (as  I  have  gradually  discovered, 
when  I  have  had  restless  occasion  to  make  inquiries  or 
leave  messages  after  office  hours)  is  under  the  charge  of 
a  lady  named  Sweeney,  in  figure  extremely  like  an  old 
family  umbrella,  whose  dwelling  confronts  a  dead  wall 
in  a  court  off  Gray's  Inn  Lane,  and  who  is  usually  fetched 
into  the  passage  of  that  bower,  when  wanted,  from  some 
neighbouring  home  of  industry,  which  has  the  curious 
property  of  imparting  an  inflammatory  appearance  to 
her  visage.  Mrs.  Sweeney  is  one  of  the  race  of  pro- 
fessed laundresses,  and  is  a  compiler  of  a  remarkable 
manuscript  volume  entitled  **  Mrs.  Sweeney's  Book," 
from  which  much  curious  statistical  information  may  be 
gathered  respecting  the  high  prices  and  small  uses 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLEK. 


413 


(Soda,  soap,  sand,  firewood,  and  other  such  articles.  I 
have  created  a  legend  in  niy  mind, — and  consequently  I 
believe  it  with  the  utmost  pertinacity, — that  the  late 
Mr.  Sweeney  was  a  ticket-porter  under  the  Honourable 
Society  of  Gray's  Inn,  and  that,  in  consideration  of  his  long 
and  valuable  services,  Mrs.  Sweeney  was  appointed  to 
her  present  post.  For,  though  devoid  of  personal  charms, 
I  have  observed  this  lady  to  exercise  a  fascination  over 
the  elderly  ticket-porter  mind  (particularly  under  the 
gateway,  and  in  corners  and  entries),  which  I  can  only 
refer  to  her  being  one  of  the  fraternity,  yet  not  competing 
with  it.  All  that  need  be  said  concerning  this  set  of 
chambers  is  said,  when  I  have  added  that  it  is  in  a  large 
double  house  in  Gray's  Inn  Square,  very  much  out  of 
repair,  and  that  the  outer  portal  is  ornamented  in  a  hide- 
ous manner  with  certain  stone  remains,  which  have  the 
appearance  of  the  dismembered  bust,  torso,  and  limbs 
of  a  petrified  bencher. 

Indeed,  I  look  upon  Gray's  Inn  generally  as  one  of  the 
most  depressing  institutions  in  brick  and  mortar  known 
to  the  children  of  men.  Can  anything  be  more  dreary 
than  its  arid  Square,  Sahara  Desert  of  the  law,  with  the 
ugly  old  tiled-topped  tenements,  the  dirty  windows,  the 
bills  To  Let,  To  Let,  the  door-posts  inscribed  like  grave- 
stones, the  crazy  gateway  giving  upon  the  filthy  Lane, 
the  scowling,  iron-barred,  prison -like  passage  into  Veru- 
1am  Buildings,  the  mouldy,  red-nosed  ticket-porters  with 
little  coffin-plates,  and  why  with  aprons,  the  dry,  hard, 
atomy-like  appearance  of  the  whole  dust-heap  ?  When 
my  uncommercial  travels  tend  to  this  dismal  spot, my  com- 
fort is  its  rickety  state.  Imagination  gloats  over  the  ful- 
ness of  time  when  the  staircases  shall  have  quite  tum 
bled  down, — they  are  daily  wearing  into  an  ill-savoured 
powder,  but  have  not  quite  tumbled  down  yet ;  when 
the  last  old  prolix  bencher,  all  of  the  olden  time,  shall 
have  been  got  out  of  an  upper  window  by  means  of  a 
Fire  Ladder,  and  carried  off  to  the  Holborn  Union ; 
when  the  last  clerk  shall  have  engrossed  the  last  parch- 
ment behind  the  last  splash  on  the  last  of  the  mud- 
stained  windows,  which,  all  through  the  miry  year,  are 
pilloried  out  of  recognition  in  Gray's  Inn  Lane.  Then 
shall  a  squalid  little  trench,  with  rank  grass  and  a  pump 
in  it,  lying  between  the  coffee-house  and  South  Square, 
be  wholly  given  up  to  cats  and  rats,  and  not,  as  now,  have 
its  empire  divided  between .  those  animals  and  a  few 
briefless  bipeds, — surely  called  to  the  Bar  by  voices  of 
deceiving  spirits, — seeing  that  they  are  wanted  there  by 
no  mortal, — who  glance  down,  with  eyes  better  glazed 
than  their  casements,  from  their  dreary  and  lack-lustre 
rooms.  Then  shall  the  v/ay  Nor' westward,  now  lying 
under  a  short,  grim  colonnade  where  in  summer-xime 


414 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


pounce  flies  from  law-stationering  windows  into  the  eyes 
f>f  laymen,  be  choked  with  rubbish,  and  happily  become 
impassable.  Then  shall  the  garden  where  turf,  trees, 
and  gravel  wear  a  le^al  livery  of  black  run  rank,  and 
pilgrims  go  to  Gorhambury  to  see  Bacon's  efiio^y  as  he 
sat,  and  not  come  here  (which,  in  truth,  tliey  seldom  do) 
to  see  where  he  walked.  Then,  in  a  word,  shall  the 
old-established  vendor  of  periodicals  sit  alone  in  his  little 
crib  of  a  shop  behind  the  Hoi  born  Gate,  like  that  lum- 
bering Marius  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage,  who  has  sat 
heavy  on  a  thousr.nd  million  of  similes. 

At  one  period  of  my  uncommercial  career,  I  much  fre- 
quented another  set  of  chambers  in  Gray's  Inn  Square. 
They  were  what  is  familiarly  called  a  top  set,"  and  all 
the  eatables  and  drinkables  introduced  into  them  ac° 
quired  a  flavour  of  Cockloft.  I  have  known  an  un- 
opened Strasburg  pate  fresh  from  Fortnum  and  Mason's 
to  draw  in  this  cockloft  tone,  through  its  crockery  dish, 
and  become  penetrated  with  cockloft  to  the  core  of  its 
inmost  truffle  in  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  This,  how- 
ever, was  not  the  most  curious  feature  of  those  cham- 
bers ;  that  consisted  in  the  profound  conviction  enter- 
tained by  my  esteemed  friend  Parkle  (their  tenant)  that 
they  were  clean.  Whether  it  was  an  inborn  hallucina- 
tion, or  whether  it  was  imparted  to  him  by  Mrs.  Miggot, 
the  laundress,  I  never  could  ascertain.  But  I  believe  he 
would  have  gone  to  the  stake  upon  the  question.  Now 
they  were  so  dirty  that  I  could  take  off  the  distinctest 
impression  of  my  figure  on  any  article  of  furniture  by 
merely  lounging  upon  it  for  a  few  moments  ;  and  it  used 
to  be  a  private  amusement  of  mine  to  print  myself  off — 
if  I  may  use  the  expression — all  over  the  rooms.  It  was 
the  first  large  circulation  I  had.  At  other  times  I  have 
accidentally  shaken  a  window-curtain  while  in  animated 
conversation  with  Parkle,  and  struggling  insects  which 
were  certainly  red,  and  were  certainly  not  ladybirds,  have 
dropped  on  the  back  of  my  hand.  Yet  Parkle  lived  in 
that  top  set  years,  bound  body  and  soul  to  the  supersti- 
tion that  they  were  clean.  He  used  to  say,  when  con- 
gratulated upon  them,  Well,  they  are  not  like  cham- 
bers in  one  respect,  you  know  ;  they  are  clean."  Con- 
currently, he  had  an  idea  which  he  could  never  explain, 
that  Mrs.  Miggot  was  in  some  way  connected  with  the 
Church.  When  he  was  in  particularly  good  spirits,  he 
used  to  believe  that  a  deceased  uncle  of  hers  had  been  a 
Dean  ;  when  he  was  poorly  and  low,  he  believed  that  her 
brother  had  been  a  Curate.  I  and  Mrs.  Miggot  (she  was 
a  gentee'  woman)  were  on  confidential  terms,  but  I  never 
knew  her  to  commit  herself  to  any  distinct  assertion  on 
the  subject ;  she  merely  claimed  a  proprietorship  in  the 
Church,  by  looking,  when  it  was  mentioned,  as  if  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


415 


reference  awakemed  the  slumbering  Past,  and  were  per- 
sonal. It  may  have  been  his  amiable  confidence  in  Mrs. 
Mig^ot's  better  days  tLat  inspired  my  friend  with  his 
delusion  respecting  the  chambers  ;  but  he  never  wa- 
vered in  his  fidelity  to  it  for  a  moment,  though  he  wal- 
lowed in  dirt  seven  years. 

Two  of  the  windows  of  these  chambers  looked  down 
into  the  garden ;  and  we  have  sat  up  there  together, 
many  a  summer  evening,  saying  how  pleasant  it  was, 
and  talking  of  many  things.  To  my  intimacy  with  that 
top  set  I  am  indebted  for  three  of  my  liveliest  personal 
impressions  of  the  loneliness  of  life  in  chambers.  They 
shall  follow  here,  in  order  ;  first,  second,  and  third. 

First.  My  Gray's  Inn  friend,  on  a  time,  hurt  one  of 
his  legs,  and  it  became  seriously  inflamed.  Not  know- 
ing of  his  indisposition,  I  was  on  my  way  to  visit  him  as 
usual,  one  summer  evening,  when  I  was  much  surprised 
by  meeting  a  lively  leech  in  Field  Court,  Gray's  Inn, 
seemingly  on  his  way  to  the  West  End  of  London.  As 
the  leech  was  alone,  and  was  of  course  unable  to  explain 
his  position,  even  if  he  had  been  inclined  to  do  so  (which 
he  had  not  the  appearance  of  being),  I  passed  him,  and 
went  on.  Turning  the  corner  of  Gray's  Inn  Square,  I 
was  beyond  expression  amazed  by  meeting  another  leech, 
— also  entirely  alone,  and  also  proceeding  in  a  westerly 
direction,  though  with  less  decision  of  purpose.  Rumi- 
nating on  this  extraordinary  circumstance,  and  endeav- 
ouring to  remember  whether  I  had  ever  read,  in  the  Phil- 
osophical Transactions,  or  any  work  on  Natural  History, 
of  a  migration  of  Leeches,  I  ascended  to  the  top  set,  past 
the  dreary  series  of  closed  outer  doors  of  ofiices,  and  an 
empty  set  or  two,  which  intervened  between  that  lofty 
region  and  the  surface.  Entering  my  friend's  rooms,  I 
found  him  stretched  upon  his  back,  like  Prometheus 
Bound,  with  a  perfectly  demented  ticket-porter  in  at- 
tendance on  him  instead  of  the  Vulture  ;  which  helpless 
individual,  who  was  feeble  and  frightened,  had  (my 
friend  explained  to  me,  in  great  choler)  been  endeavour- 
mg  for  some  hours  to  apply  leeches  to  his  leg,  and  as  yet 
had  only  got  on  two  out  of  twenty.  To  this  unfortu- 
nate's distraction  between  a  damp  cloth,  on  which  he 
had  placed  the  leeches  to  freshen  them,  and  the  wrath- 
ful adjurations  of  my  friend  to  Stick  'em  on,  sir  i"  I 
referred  the  phenomenon  I  had  encountered  ;  the  rather 
as  two  fine  specimens  were  at  that  moment  going  out  at 
the  door,  while  a  general  insurrection  of  the  rest  was  in 
progress  on  the  table.  After  a  while  our  united  efforts 
prevailed  ;  and,  when  the  leeches  came  off,  and  had  re- 
cover-:?d  their  spirits,  we  carefully  tied  them  up  in  a  de- 
canter. But  I  never  heard  more  of  them  than  that  they 
vrere  all  gone  next  morning,  and  that  the  Out-of-door 


416 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


young  man  of  Bickle  Bush  and  Bodger,  on  the  ground- 
floor^  had  been  bitten  and  blooded  by  some  creature  not 
identified.  They  never  *'  took "  on  Mrs.  Miggot,  the 
laundress  ;  but  I  have  always  preserved  fresh  the  belief 
thcit  she  unconsciously  carried  several  about  her,  until, 
they  gradually  found  openings  in  life. 

Second.  On  the  same  staircase  with  my  friend  Parkle^ 
and  on  the  same  floor,  there  lived  a  man  of  law  who  pur- 
sued his  business  elsewhere,  and  used  those  chambers  as 
his  place  of  residence.  For  three  or  four  years  Parkle 
rather  knew  of  him  than  knew  him  ;  but  after  that — for 
Englishman — short  pause  of  consideration,  they  began  to 
speak.  Parkle  exchanged  words  with  him  in  his  pri- 
vate character  only,  and  knew  nothing  of  his  business 
ways  or  means.  He  was  a  man  a  good  deal  about  town, 
but  always  alone.  We  used  to  remark  to  one  another, 
that,  although  we  often  encountered  him  in  theatres, 
concert-rooms,  and  similar  public  places,  he  was  always 
alone.  Yet  he  was  not  a  gloomy  man,  and  was  of  a  de 
eidedly  conversational  turn ;  insomuch  that  he  would 
sometimes  of  an  evening  lounge,  with  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth,  half  in  and  half  out  of  Parkle's  rooms,  and  dis- 
cuss the  topics  of  the  day  by  the  hour.  He  used  to  hint 
on  these  occasions  that  he  had  four  faults  to  find  with 
life  :  firstly,  that  it  obliged  a  man  to  be  always  winding 
up  his  watch  ;  secondly,  that  London  was  too  small ; 
thirdly,  that  it  therefore  wanted  variety  ;  fourthly,  that 
there  was  too  much  dust  in  it.  There  was  so  much  dust 
in  his  own  faded  chambers,  certainly,  that  they  reminded 
me  of  a  sepulchre,  furnished  in  prophetic  anticipation  of 
the  present  time,  which  had  newly  been  brought  to  light, 
after  having  remained  buried  a  few  thousand  years. 
One  dry,  hot,  autumn  evening,  at  twilight,  this  man, 
being  then  five  years  turned  of  fifty,  looked  in  upon 
Parkle  in  his  usual  lounging  way,  with  his  cigar  in  his 
mouth  as  usual,  and  said,  *'  I  am  going  out  of  town." 
As  he  never  went  out  of  town,  Parkle  said,  *'0,  indeed  ! 
At  last  ?  "  "  Yes,"  says  he,  **  at  last.  For  what  is  a  man 
to  do  ?  London  is  so  small !  If  you  go  West,  you  come 
to  Hounslow.  If  you  go  East,  you  come  to  Bow.  If  you 
go  South,  there's  Brixton  or  Norwood.  If  you  go  North, 
you  can't  get  rid  of  Barnet.  Then  the  monotony  of  all 
the  streets,  streets,  streets, — and  of  all  the  roads,  roads, 
roads, — and  the  dust,  dust,  dust !  "  When  he  had  said 
this,  he  wished  Parkle  a  good  evening,  but  came  back 
again,  and  said,  with  his  watch  in  his  hand,  '*  O,  I  really 
cannot  go  on  winding  up  this  watch  over  and  over 
again  ;  I  wish  you  would  take  care  of  it."  So  Parkle 
laughed  and  consented,  and  the  man  went  out  of  town. 
The  man  remained  out  of  town  so  long  that  his  letter- 
bos  became  choked,  and  no  more  letters  could  be  got 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLEK 


417 


into  it,  and  tliey  beg-an  to  be  left  at  the  lodge,  and  to  ac- 
cumulate there.  At  last  the  head-porter  decided,  on 
conference  with  the  steward,  to  use  his  master-key  and 
look  into  the  chambers,  and  give  them  the  benefit  of  a 
whiff  of  air.  Then  it  was  found  that  he  had  hanged 
himself  to  his  bedstead,. and  had  left  this  written  mem- 
orandum :  "  1  should  prefer  to  be  cut  down  by  my  neigh- 
bour and  friend  (if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so),  H. 
Parkle,  Esq."  This  was  the  end  of  Parkle's  occupancy 
of  chambers.    He  went  into  lodgings  immediately. 

Third.  While  Parkle  lived  in  Gray's  Inn,  and  I 
myself  was  uncommercially  preparing  for  the  Bar, — 
which  is  done,  as  everybody  knows,  by  having  a  frayed 
old  gown  put  on  in  a  pantry  by  an  old  woman  in  a 
chronic  state  of  Saint  Anthony's  fire  and  dropsy,  and,  so 
decorated,  bolting  a  bad  dinner  in  a  party  of  four, 
whereof  each  individual  mistrusts  the  other  three, — I 
say,  while  these  things  were,  there  was  a  certain  elderly 
gentleman  who  lived  in  a  court  of  tbe  Temple,  and  was 
a  great  judge  and  lover  of  port  wine.  Every  day  he 
dined  at  his  club,  and  drank  his  bottle  or  two  of  port 
wine,  and  every  night  came  home  to  the  Temple,  and 
went  to  bed  in  his  lonely  chambers.  This  had  gone  on 
many  years  without  variation,  when  one  night  he  had 
a  fit  on  coming  home,  and  fell,  and  cut  his  heaci  deep, 
but  partly  recovered,  and  groped  about  in  the  dark  to 
find  the  door.  When  he  was  afterwards  discovered 
dead,  it  was  clearly  established  by  the  marks  of  his 
hands  about  the  room  that  he  must  have  done  so.  Now 
this  chanc*ed  on  the  night  of  Christmas  eve,  and  over 
him  lived  a  young  fellow  who  had  sisters  and  young 
country  friends,  and  who  gave  them  a  little  party  that 
night,  in  the  course  of  which  they  played  at  Blindman's 
Buff.  They  played  that  game,  for  their  greater  sport, 
by  the  light  of  the  fire  only  ;  and  once,  when  they  were 
all  quietly  rustling  and  stealing  about,  and  the  blindman 
was  trying  to  pick  out  the  prettiest  sister  (for  which  I  am 
far  from  blaming  him),  somebody  cried,  Hark  !  the  man 
below  must  be  playing  Blindman's  Buff  by  himself  to- 
night I  They  listened,  and  they  heard  sounds  of  some 
one  falling  about  and  stumbling  against  furniture  ;  and 
they  all  laughed  at  the  conceit,  and  v/ent  on  with  their 
play,  more  light-hearted  and  merry  than  ever.  Thus 
those  two  so  different  games  of  life  and  death  were 
played  out  together,  blindfold,  in  the  two  sets  of  cham- 
bers. 

Such  are  the  occurrences  which,  coming  to  my  knowl- 
edge, imbued  me  long  ago  with  a  strong  sense  of  the  lone- 
liness of  chambers.  There  w^as  a  fantastic  illustration  to 
much  the  same  purpose  implicitly  believed  by  a  strange 
Bort  of  man  now  dead,  whom  I  knew  when  I  had  not 


418  WOIiKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


quite  arrived  at  legal  years  of  discretion,  though  I  was 
already  in  the  uncommercial  Yiiie. 

This  was  a  man  who,  though  not  more  than  thirty, 
had  seen  the  world  in  divers  irreconcilable  capacities, — 
had  been  an  officer  in  a  South  American  regiment  among 
other  odd  things, — but  had  not  achieved  much  in  any 
way  of  life,  and  was  in  debt,  and  in  hiding.  He  occu- 
pied chambers  of  the  dreariest  nature  in  Lyons  Inn  ;  his 
name,  however,  was  not  upon  the  door,  or  door-posi,  hut 
in  lieu  of  it  stood  the  name  of  a  friend  who  had  died  in 
the  chambers,  and  had  given  him  the  furniture.  The 
story  arose  out  of  the  furniture,  and  was  to  this  effect : 
Let  the  former  holder  of  the  chambers,  whose  name  was 
still  upon  the  door  and  door-post,  be  Mr.  Testator. 

Mr.  Testator  took  a  set  of  chambers  in  Lyons  Inn  when 
he  had  hut  very  scanty  furniture  for  his  bedroom,  and 
none  for  his  sitting-room.  He  had  lived  some  wintry 
months  in  this  condition,  and  had  found  it  very  bare  and 
cold.  One  night,  past  midnight,  when  he  sat  writing, 
and  still  had  writing  to  do  that  must  be  done  before  he 
went  to  bed,  he  found  himself  out  of  coals.  He  had 
coals  down-stairs,  but  had  never  been  to  his  cellar ; 
however,  the  cellar  key  was  on  his  mantel -shelf,  and  if 
he  went  down,  and  opened  the  cellar  it  fitted,  he  might 
fairly  assume  the  coals  in  that  cellar  to  be  his.  As  to 
his  laundress,  she  lived  among  the  coal- wagons  and 
Thames  watermen, — for  there  were  Thames  watermen  at 
that  time, — in  some  unknown  rat-hole  by  the  river,  down 
lanes  and  alleys  on  the  other  side  of  the  Strand.  As  to 
any  other  person  to  meet  him  or  obstruct  him;  Lyons  Inn 
was  dreaming,  drunk,  maudlin,  moody,  betting,  brooding 
over  bill  discounting  or  renewing, — asleep  or  awake, 
minding  its  own  affairs.  Mr.  Testator  took  his  coal- 
scuttle in  one  hand,  his  candle  and  key  in  the  other,  and 
descended  to  the  dismallest  underground  dens  of  Lyons 
Inn,  where  the  late  vehicles  in  the  streets  hecame 
thunderous,  and  all  the  water-pipes  in  the  neighbourhood 
seemed  to  have  Macheth's  Amen  sticking  in  their  throats, 
and  to  be  trying  to  get  it  out.  After  groping  here  and 
there  among  low  doors  to  no  purpose,  Mr.  Testator  at 
length  came  to  a  door  with  a  rusty  padlock  which  his 
key  fitted.  Getting  the  door  open  with  much  trouble, 
and  looking  in,  he  found  no  coals,  but  a  confused  pile  of 
furniture.  Alarmed  by  this  intrusion  on  another  man's 
property,  he  locked  the  door  again,  found  his  own  cellar, 
filled  his  scuttle,  and  returned  up-stairs. 

But  the  furniture  he  had  seen  ran  on  castors  across  and 
across  Mr.  Testator's  mind  incessantly,  when,  in  the  chM\ 
hour  of  five  in  the  morning,  he  got  to  bed.  He  particu- 
/arly  wanted  a  taC)/e  to  write  at,  and  a  table  expressly 
made  to  be  written  at  had  been  the  piece  of  furniture  in 


THE  UNCOMMKKCIAL  TKAVELLEK. 


419 


the  foreground  of  the  heap.  When  his  laundress  emerg- 
ed from  her  burrow  in  the  morning  to  make  his  kettle 
boil,  he  artfully  led  up  to  the  subject  of  cellars  and 
furniture  ;  but  the  two  ideas  had  evidently  no  connec- 
tion in  her  mind.  When  she  left  him,  and  he  sat  at  his 
breakfast,  thinking  about  the  furniture,  he  recalled  the 
rusty  state  of  the  padlock,  and  inferred  that  the  furni- 
ture muct  have  been  stored  in  the  cellars  for  along  time, 
— was  perhaps  forgotten, — owner  dead,  perhaps?  After 
thinking  it  over  a  few  days,  in  the  course  of  which  he 
could  pump  nothing  out  of  Lyons  Inn  about  the  furni- 
ture, he  became  desperate,  and  resolved  to  borrow  that 
table.  He  did  so  that  night.  He  had  not  the  table  long, 
when  he  determined  to  borrow  an  easy-chair  ;  he  had 
not  had  that  long,  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  borrow 
a  book-case  ;  then  a  couch  ;  then  a  carpet  and  rug.  By 
that  time,  he  felt  he  was  in  furniture  stepped  in  so 
far"  as  that  it  could  be  no  worse  to  borrow  it  all.  Con- 
sequently he  borrowed  it  all,  and  locked  up  the  cellar  for 
good.  He  had  always  locked  it  after  every  visit.  He 
had  carried  up  every  separate  article  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  and,  at  the  best,  had  felt  as  wicked  as  a  Resur- 
rection Man.  Every  article  was  blue  and  furry  when 
brought  into  his  rooms  ;  and  he  had  had,  in  a  murder- 
ous and  guilty  sort  of  way,  to  polish  it  up  while  London 
slept. 

'Mr.  Testator  lived  in  his  furnished  chambers  two  or 
three  years  or  more,  and  gradually  lulled  himself  into 
the  opinion  that  the  furniture  v/as  his  own.  This  was 
his  convenient  state  of  mind  when,  late  one  night,  a  step 
came  up  the  stairs,  and  a  hand  passed  over  his  door  feeling 
for  his  knocker,  and  then  one  deep  and  solemn  rap  v/as 
rapped  that  might  have  been  a  spring  in  Mr.  Testator's 
easy-chair  to  shoot  him  out  of  it ;  so  promptly  was  it 
attended  with  that  effect. 

With  a  candle  in  his  hand,  Mr.  Testator  went  to  the 
door,  and  found  there  a  very  pale  and  very  tall  man ;  a 
man  who  stooped  ;  a  man  with  very  high  shoulders,  a 
very  narrow  chest,  and  a  very  red  nose  ;  a  shabby-gen- 
teel man.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  long,  threadbare,*  black 
coat,  fastened  up  the  front  with  more  pins  than  buttons, 
and  under  his  arm  he  squeezed  an  umbrella  without  a 
handle,  as  if  he  were  playing  bagpipes.  He  said,  I 
ask  your  pardon,  but  can  you  tell  me — "  and  stopped  ; 
his  eyes  resting  on  some  objects  within  the  chambers. 

**Can  I  tell  you  what?"  asked  Mr.  Testator,  noting 
this  stoppage  with  quick  alarm. 

ask  your  pardon,"  said  the  stranger,  '*but — this  is 
not  the  inquiry  I  was  going  to  make — do  I  see  in  there 
any  small  article  of  property  belonging  to  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Testator  was  beginning  to  stammer  that  he  was 


420 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


not  aware — when  the  visitor  slipped  past  him  into  the 
chambers.  There  in  a  goblin  way  which  froze  Mr.  Tea 
tator  to  the  marrow,  he  examined,  first,  the  writing- 
table,  and  said,  Mine  "  ;  then  the  easy-chair,  and  said, 
*'Mine"  ;  then  the  bookcase,  and  said,  *'Mine'*  ;  then 
turned  up  a  corner  of  the  carpet,  and  said,  Mine  "  ;  in 
a  word,  inspected  every  item  of  furniture  from  the  cel- 
lar, in  succession,  and  said,  **  Mine  I  "  Towards  the  end 
of  this  investigation  Mr.  Testator  perceived  that  he  was 
sodden  with  liquor,  and  that  the  liquor  was  gin.  He 
was  not  unsteady  with  gin,  either  in  his  speech  or  carri- 
age ;  but  he  was  stiff  with  gin  in  both  particulars. 

Mr.  Testator  was  in  a  dreadful  state,  for  (according  to 
his  making  out  of  the  story)  the  possible  consequences 
of  what  he  had  done  in  recklessness  and  hardihood 
flashed  upon  him  in  their  fulness  for  the  first  time. 
When  they  had  stood  gazing  at  one  another  for  a  little 
while,  he  tremulously  began  : — 

Sir,  I  am  conscious  that  the  fullest  explanation, 
compensation,  and  restitution  are  your  due.  They  shall 
be  yours.  Allow  me  to  entreat  that,  without  temper, 
without  even  natural  irritation  on  your  part,  we  may 
have  a  little — " 

Drop  of  something  to  drink,"  interposed  the  stranger. 

I  am  agreeable." 

Mr.  Testator  had  intended  to  say,  "a  little  quiet  con- 
versation," but  with  great  relief  of  mind  adopted  the 
amendment.  He  produced  a  decanter  of  gin,  and  was 
bustling  about  for  hot  water  and  sugar,  when  he  found 
that  his  visitor  had  already  drunk  half  of  the  decanter's 
contents.  With  hot  water  and  sugar  the  visitor  drank 
the  remainder  before  he  had  been  an  hour  in  the  cham- 
bers by  the  chimes  of  the  church  of  St.  Mary  in  the 
Strand  ;  and  during  the  process  he  frequently  whispered 
to  himself,     Mine  !" 

The  gin  gone,  and  Mr.  Testator  wondering  what  was 
to  follow  it,  the  visitor  rose  and  said,  with  increased 
stiffness,  At  what  hour  of  the  morning,  sir,  will  it  be 
convenient?"  Mr.  Testator  hazarded,  '^Atten?"  "Sir," 
said  the  visitor,  at  feen,  to  the  moment,  I  shall  be  here." 
He  then  contemplated  Mr.  Testator  somewhat  at  leisure, 
and  said,  *'Qod  blfess  you  !  How  is  your  wife?"  Mr. 
Testator  (who  never  had  a  wife)  replied,  with  much 
feeling,  Deeply  anxious,  poor  soul  !  but  otherwise 
well."  The  visitor  thereupon  turned  and  went  away, 
and  fell  twice  in  going  down-stairs.  From  that  hour  he 
was  never  heard  of.  Whether  he  was  a  ghost,  or  a 
spectral  illusion  of  conscience,  or  a  drunken  man  who 
had  no  business  there,  or  the  drunken  rightful  owner 
of  the  furniture,  with  a  transitory  gleam  of  memory ; 
whether  he  got  safe  home,  or  had  no  home  to  get  to ; 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  4^1 

whether  ho  died  of  liquor  on  the  way,  or  lived  in  liquor 
ever  afterwards, — he  never  w^as  heard  of  more.  This 
was  the  story,  received  with  the  furniture,  and  held  to 
be  as  substantial,  by  its  second  possessor  in  an  upper  set 
of  chambers  in  grim  Lyons  Inn. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  of  chambers  in  general,  ^feaat  they 
must  have  been  built  for  chambers,  to  have  the  right 
kind  of  loneliness.  You  may  make  a  great  dwelling- 
house  very  lonely,  by  isolating  suites  of  rooms,  and  call- 
ing them  chambers,  but  you  cannot  make  the  true  kind 
of  loneliness.  In  dwelling-houses  there  have  been  fam- 
ily festivals ;  children  have  grown  in  them,  girls  have 
bloomed  into  women  in  them,  courtships  and  marriages 
have  taken  place  in  them.  True  chambers  never  were 
young,  childish,  maidenly  ;  never  had  dolls  in  them,  or 
rocking-horses,  or  christenings,  or  betrothals,  or  little 
coffins.  Let  Gray's  Inn  identify  the  chil'd  v/ho  first 
touched  hands  and  hearts  with  Robinson  Crusoe  in  any 
one  of  its  many  **  sets,"  and  that  child's  little  statue,  in 
white  marble  with  a  golden  inscription,  shall  be  at  its 
service,  at  my  cost  and  charge,  as  a  drinking- fountain 
for  the  spirit,  to  freshen  its  thirsty  square.  Let  Lin- 
coln's produce  from  all  its  houses  a  twentieth  of  the 
procession  derivable  from  any  dwelling-house,  one  twen- 
tieth of  its  age,  of  fair  young  brides  who  married  for 
love  and  hope,  not  settlements,  and  all  the  Vice-Chan- 
cel lors  shall  thenceforward  be  kept  in  nosegays  for 
nothing,  on  application  to  the  writer  hereof.  It  is  not 
denied  that  on  the  terrace  of  the  Adelphi,  or  in  any  of 
the  streets  of  that  subterranean-stable-haunted  spot,  or 
about  Bedford  Row,  or  James  Street  of  that  ilk  (a  grew- 
some  place),  or  anywhere  among  the  neighbourhoods 
that  have  done  flowering  and  have  run  to  seed,  you  may 
find  Chambers  replete  with  the  accommodations  of  Soli- 
tude, Closeness,  and  Darkness,  where  you  may  be  as 
low-spirited  as  in  the  genuine  article,  and  might  be  as 
easily  murdered,  with  the  placid  reputation  of  having 
merely  gone  down  to  the  seaside.  But  the  many  waters 
of  life  did  run  musical  in  those  dry  channels  once  ; — 
among  the  Inns,  never.  The  only  popular  legend  known 
in  relation  to  any  one  of  the  dull  family  of  Inns  is  a 
dark  Old  Bailey  whisper  concerning  Clement's  and  im- 
porting how  the  black  creature  who  holds  the  sundial 
there  was  a  negro  who  slew  his  master,  and  built  the 
dismal  pile  out  of  the  contents  of  his  strong  box, — for 
which  architectural  offence  alone  he  ought  to  have  been 
condemned  to  live  in  it.  But  what  populace  would 
waste  fancy  upon  such  a  place,  or  on  New  Inn,  Staple 
Inn,  Barnard's  Inn,  or  any  of  the  shabby  crew  ? 

The  genuine  laundress,  too,  is  an  institution  not  to  be 
had  in  its  entirety  out  of  and  away  from  the  genuine 


422  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Chambers.  Again,  it  is  not  denied  that  you  may  be 
robbed  elsewhere.  Elsewhere  you  may  have — for  money 
— dishonesty,  drunkenness,  dirt,  laziness,  and  profound 
incapacity.  But  the  veritable  shining-red-faced,  shame- 
less laundress, — the  true  Mrs.  Sweeney,  in  figure,  colour, 
texture,  and  smell  like  the  old  damp  family  umbrella, 
— the  tip-top  complicated  abomination  of  stockings, 
spirits,  bonnet,  limpness,  looseness,  and  larceny, — is 
only  to  be  drawn  at  the  fountain-head.  Mrs.  Sweeney 
is  beyond  the  reach  of  individual  art.  It  requires  the 
united  efforts  of  several  men  to  insure  that  great  result, 
and  it  is  only  developed  in  perfection  under  an  Honour- 
able Society  and  in  an  Inn  of  Court. 


XV. 

Nurse's  Stones. 

There  are  not  many  places  that  I  find  it  more  agree- 
able to  revisit,  when  I  am  in  an  idle  mood,  than  some 
places  to  which  I  have  never  been.  For  my  acquaint- 
ance with  those  spots  is  of  such  long  standing,  and  has 
ripened  into  an  intimacy  of  so  affectionate  a  nature,  that 
I  take  a  particular  interest  in  assuring  myself  that  they 
are  unchanged. 

I  never  was  in  Robinson  Crusoe's  Island,  yet  I  fre- 
quently return  there.  The  colony  he  established  on  it 
soon  faded  away,  and  it  is  uninhabited  by  any  descend- 
ants of  the  grave  and  courteous  Spaniards,  or  of  Will 
Atkins  and  the  other  mutineers,  and  has  relapsed  into 
its  original  condition.  Not  a  twig  of  its  wicker  houses 
remains,  its  goats  have  long  run  wild  a^ain,  its  scream- 
ing parrots  would  darken  the" sun  with  a  cloud  of  many 
flaming  colours  if  a  gun  were  fired  there,  no  face  is  ever 
reflected  in  the  waters  of  the  little  creek  which  Friday 
swam  across  when  pursued  by  his  two  brother  cannibals 
with  sharpened  stomachs.  After  comparing  notes  with 
other  travellers  who  have  similarly  revisited  the  Island, 
and  conscientiously  inspected  it,  I  have  satisfied  myself 
that  it  contains  no  vestige  of  Mr.  Atkins's  domesticity  or 
theology  ;  though  his  track  on  the  memorable  evening 
of  his  landing  to  set  his  captain  ashore,  when  he  was 
decoyed  about  and  round  about  until  it  was  dark,  and 
his  boat  was  stove,  and  his  strength  and  spirits  failed 
him,  is  yet  plainly  to  be  traced.  So  is  the  hill-top  on 
which  Robinson  was  struck  dumb  with  joy  when  the  re- 
instated captain  pointed  to  the  ship,  riding  within  half 
a  mile  of  the  shore,  that  was  to  bear  him  away,  in  the 
nine-and- twentieth  year  of  his  seclusion  in  that  lonely 


THE  UNCOMMEKCIAL  TKAVJELLEK. 


423 


place.  So  is  the  sandy  beach  on  which  the  memorable 
footstep  was  impressed,  and  where  the  savages  hauled 
up  their  canoes  when  they  came  ashore  fo?  those  dread- 
Tal  public  dinners,  which  led  to  a  dancing  worse  than 
speech-making.  So  is  the  cave  where  the  flaring  eyes  of 
the  old  goat  made  such  a  goblin  appearance  in  the  dark. 
So  is  the  site  of  the  hut  where  Robinson  lived  with  the 
do2^  and  the  parrot  and  the  cat,  and  where  he  endured, 
those  first  agonies  of  solitude,  which — strange  to  say — 
never  involved  any  ghostly  fancies  ;  a  circumstance  so 
very  remarkable,  that  perhaps  he  left  out  something  in 
writing  his  record  ?  Round  hundreds  of  such  objects, 
hidden  in  the  dense  tropical  foliage,  the  tropical  sea 
breaks  evermore  ;  and  over  them  the  tropical  sky,  sav- 
ing in  the  short  rainy  season,  shines  bright  and  cloud- 
less. 

Neither  was  I  ever  belated  among  wolves,  on  the  bor- 
ders of  France  and  Spain  ;  nor  did  I  ever,  when  night 
was  closing  in  and  the  ground  was  covered  with  snow, 
draw  up  my  little  company  among  some  felled  trees  which 
served  as  a  breastwork,  and  there  fire  a  train  of  gun- 
powder so  dexterously  that  suddenly  we  had  three  or 
four  score  blazing  wolves  illuminating  the  darkness 
around  us.  Nevertheless,  T  occasionally  go  back  to  that 
dismal  region,  and  perform  the  feat  again  ;  when,  in- 
deed, to  smell  the  singeing  and  the  frying  of  the  wolves 
afire,  and  to  see  them  setting  one  another  alight  as  they 
rush  and  tumble,  and  to  behold  them  rolling  in  the 
snow  vainly  attempting  to  put  themselves  out,  and  to 
hear  their  bowlings  taken  up  by  all  the  echoes  as  well 
as  by  all  the  unseen  wolves  within  the  woods  makes  me 
tremble. 

I  was  never  in  the  robbers'  cave,  where  Gil  Bias  lived; 
but  I  often  go  back  there  and  find  the  trap-door  just  as 
heavy  to  raise  as  it  used  to  be  while  that  wicked  old 
disabled  Black  lies  everlastingly  cursing  in  bed.  I  was 
never  in  Don  Quixote's  study,  where  he  read  his  books 
of  chivalry  until  he  rose  and  hacked  at  imaginary  giants, 
and  then  refreshed  himself  with  great  draughts  of  water: 
yet  vou  couldn't  move  a  book  in  it  without  mv  knowl* 
edge  or  with  my  consent.  I  was  never  (thank  Heaven  !) 
in  company  with  the  little  old  woman  who  hobbled  out 
of  the  chest,  and  told  the  merchant  Abudah  to  go  in 
search  of  the  Talisman  of  Oramanes  :  yet  I  make  it  my 
business  to  know  that  she  is  well  preserved  and  as  in- 
tolerable as  ever.  I  was  never  at  the  school  where  ih^i 
hoy  Horatio  Nelson  got  out  of  bed  to  steal  the  pears, 
not  because  he  wanted  any,  but  because  every  other 
boy  was  afraid  ;  yet  I  have  several  times  been  back  to 
this  Academy,  to  see  him  let  down  out  of  window  with 
a  sheet.    So  with  Damascus,  and  Bagdad,  and  Brob- 


424 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


dingnag  (wliicli  has  the  curious  fate  of  being  usually 
misspelt  when  written),  and  Liiiput,  and  Laputa,  and 
the  Nile,  and  Abyssinia,  and  the  Ganges,  and  the  North 
Pole,  and  many  hundreds  of  places, — I  was  never  at 
them  ;  yet  it  is  an  alfair  of  my  life  to  keep  them  intact, 
and  lam  always  going  back  to  them. 

But  while  I  was  in  Dullborough  one  day,  revisiting 
the  associations  of  my  childhood  as  recorded  in  previous 
pages  of  these  notes,  my  experience  in  this  wise  was  made 
quite  inconsiderable  and  of  no  account  by  the  quantity 
of  places  and  people — utterly  impossible  places  and  peo- 
ple, but  none  the  less  alarmingly  real — that  I  found  I  had 
been  introduced  to  by  my  nurse  before  I  was  six  years 
old,  and  used  to  be  forced  to  go  back  to  at  night  without 
at  all  wanting  to  go.  If  we  all  knew  our  own  minds  (in 
a  more  enlarged  sense  than  the  popular  acceptation  of 
that  phrase),  I  suspect  we  should  find  our  nurses  respon- 
sible for  most  of  the  dark  corners  we  are  forced  to  go 
back  to  against  our  wills. 

The  first  diabolical  character  who  intruded  himself 
on  my  peaceful  youth  (as  I  called  to  mind  that  day  at 
Dullborough)  was  a  certain  Captain  Murderer.  This 
wretch  mast  have  been  an  offshoot  of  the  Blue-Beard 
family,  bat  I  had  no  suspicion  of  the  consanguinity  in 
those  times.  His  warning  name  would  seem  to  have 
awakened  no  general  prejudice  against  him,  for  he  was 
admitted  into  the  best  society,  and  possessed  immense 
wealth.  Captain  Murderer's  mission  was  matrimony, 
and  the  gratification  of  a  cannibal  appetite  with  tender 
brides.  On  his  marriage  morning,  he  always  caused 
both  sides  of  the  way  to  church  to  be  planted  with 
curioas  flowers  ;  and  when  his  bride  said,  Dear  Captain 
Murderer,  I  never  saw  flowers  like  these  before  ;  what 
are  they  called  ?  "  he  answered,  They  are  called  Garnish 
for  house-lamb,'*  and  laughed  at  his  ferocious  practical 
joke  in  a  horrid  manner,  disquieting  the  minds  of  the 
noble  bridal  company  with  a  very  sharp  show  of  teeth, 
then  displayed  for  the  first  time.  He  made  love  in  a 
coach  and  six,  and  married  in  a  coach  and  twelve  ;  and 
all  his  horses  were  milk-white  horses  with  one  red  spot 
on  the  back,  which  he  caused  to  be  hidden  by  the  har- 
ness. For  the  spot  icould  come  there,  though  every 
horse  was  milk-white  when  Captain  Murderer  bought 
him.  And  the  spot  was  young  bride's  blood.  (To  this 
terrific  point  I  am  indebted  for  my  first  personal  expe- 
rience of  a  shudder  and  cold  beads  on  the  forehead.) 
When  Captain  Murderer  had  made  an  end  of  feasting 
and  revelry,  and  had  dismissed  the  noble  guests,  and 
was  alone  with  his  wife  on  the  day  month  after  their 
marriage,  it  was  his  whimsical  custom  to  produce  a 
golden  rolling-pin  and  a  silver  pie-board.    Now  ther« 


THE  UN  COMMERCIAL  TKAV  ELLEK. 


425 


was  this  special  feature  in  the  Captain's  courtships,  that 
he  always  asks  if  the  young  lady  could  make  pie-crust  ; 
and  if  she  couldn't  by  nature  or  education,  she  was 
taught.  Well.  When  the  bride  saw  Captain  Murderer 
produce  the  golden  rolling-pin  and  silver  pie-board,  she 
remembered  this,  and  turned  up  her  laced-silk  sleeves 
to  make  a  pie.  The  Captain  brought  out  a  silver  pie 
dish  of  immense  capacity,  and  the  Captain  brought  out 
flour  and  butter  and  eggs,  and  all  things  needful,  except 
the  inside  of  the  pie  ;  of  materials  for  the  staple  of  the 
pie  itself,  the  Captain  brought  out  none.  Then  said  the 
lovely  bride,  "  Dear  Captain  Murderer,  wliat  pie  is  this 
to  be?"  He  replied,  A  meat  pie."  Then  said  the  lovely 
bride,  *'Dear  Captain  Murderer,  I  see  no  meat."  The 
Captain  humorously  retorted,  Look  in  the  glass."  She 
looked  in  the  glass,  but  still  she  saw  no  meat ;  and  then 
the  Captain  roared  with  laughter,  and,  suddenly  frown- 
ing and  drawing  his  sword,  t)ade  her  roll  out  the  crust. 
So  she  rolled  out  the  crust,  dropping  large  tears  upon  it 
all  the  time  because  he  was  so  cross  ;  and  when  she  had 
lined  the  dish  with  crust,  and  had  cut  the  crust  all  ready 
to  fit  the  top,  the  Captain  called  oat,  "  /  see  the  meat  in 
the  glass  !  "  And  the  bride  looked  up  at  the  glass  just 
in  time  to  see  the  Captain  cutting  her  head  off  ;  and  he 
chopped  her  in  pieces,  and  peppered  her,  and  salted  her, 
and  put  her  in  the  pie,  and  sent  it  to  the  baker's,  and 
ate  it  all,  and  picked  the  bones. 

Captain  Murderer  went  on  in  this  w^ay,  prospering  ex- 
ceedingly, until  be  came  to  choose  a  bride  from  two 
twin  sisters,  and  at  first  didn't  know  which  to  choose. 
For,  though  one  was  fair  and  the  other  dark,  they  were 
both  equally  beautiful.  But  the  fair  twin  loved  him, 
and  the  dark  twin  hated  him,  so  he  chose  the  fair  one. 
The  dark  twin  would  have  prevented  the  marriage  if  she 
could,  but  she  couldn't ;  however,  on  the  night  before 
It,  much  suspecting  Captain  Murderer,  she  stole  out,  and 
climbed  his  garden  wall,  and  looked  in  at  his  w^indow 
through  a  chink  in  the  shatter,  and  saw  him  having  his 
teeth  filed  sharp.  Next  day  she  listened  all  day,  and 
heard  him  make  his  joke  about  the  house-lamb.  And 
that  day  month  he  had  the  paste  rolled  out,  and  cut  the 
fair  twin's  head  off,  and  chopped  her  in  pieces,  and  ])ep- 
pered  her,  and  salted  her,  and  put  her  in  the  pie,  and 
sent  it  to  the  baker's,  and  ate  it  all,  and  picked  the 
bones. 

Now  the  dark  twin  had  had  her  suspicions  much  in- 
creased by  the  filing  of  the  Captain's  teeth,  and  again  by 
the  house-lamb  joke.  Putting  all  things  together,  when 
he  gave  out  that  her  sister  was  dead,  she  divined  the 
truth,  and  determined  to  be  revenged.  So  she..went  up 
to  Captain  Murderer's  house,  and  knocked  at  theknocker. 


426 


WORKS  OF  CHAKLEIS  DICKENS. 


and  pulled  at  the  bell,  and  when  the  Captain  came  to  tlio 
door,  said  :  Dear  Captain  Murderer,  marry  me  next ; 
for  I  always  loved  you,  and  was  jealous  of  my  sister." 
The  Captain  took  it  as  a  compliment,  and  made  a  polite 
answer,  and  the  marriage  was  quickly  arranged.  On  the 
night  before  it  the  bride  again  climbed  to  his  window, 
and  again  saw  him  having  his  teeth  filed  sharp.  At  this 
sight  she  laughed  such  a  terrible  laugh  at  the  chink  in 
the  shutter,  that  the  Captain's  blood  curdled,  and  he 
said,  ''I  hope  nothing  has  disagreed  with  me!"  At 
that  she  laughed  again,  a  still  more  terrible  laugh,  and 
the  shutter  was  opened  and  search  made  ;  but  she 
was  nimbly  gone,  and  there  was  no  one.  Next  day  they 
went  to  church  in  the  coach  and  twelve,  and  were  mar- 
ried. And  that  day  month,  she  rolled  the  pie-crust  out, 
and  Captain  Murderer  cut  her  head  off,  and  chopped  her 
in  pieces,  and  peppered  her,  and  salted  her,  and  put  her 
in  the  pie,  and  sent  it  to  the  baker's,  and  ate  it  all,  and 
picked  the  bones. 

But  before  she  began  to  roll  out  the  paste,  she  had 
taken  a  deadly  poison  of  a  most  awful  character,  dis- 
tilled from  toads'  eyes  and  spiders'  knees  ;  and  Captain 
Murderer  had  hardly  picked  her  lust  bone  when  he  be- 
gan to  swell,  and  to  turn  blue,  and  to  be  all  over  spots, 
and  to  scream.  And  he  went  on  swelling,  and  turning 
bluer,  and  being  more  all  over  spots,  and  screaming, 
until  he  reached  from  floor  to  ceiling  and  from  wall  to 
wall ;  and  then,  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  blew 
up  with  a  loud  explosion.  At  the  sotind  of  it  all  the 
milk-white  horses  in  the  stables  broke  their  halters  and 
went  mad  ;  and  then  they  galloped  over  everybody  in 
Captain  Murderer's  house  (beginning  with  the  family 
blacksmith  who  had  filed  his  teeth,  until  the  whole 
were  dead,  and  then  they  galloped  away. 

Hundreds  of  times  did  I  hear  this  legend  of  Captain 
Murderer  in  my  early  youth,  and  added  hundreds  of 
times  was  there  a  mental  compulsion  upon  me  in  bed  to 
peep  in  at  his  window  as  the  dark  twin  peeped,  and  to 
revisit  his  horrible  house,  and  look  at  him  in  his  bl  ue  and 
spotty  and  screaming  stage,  as  he  reached  from  floor  to 
ceiling  and  from  wall  to  wall.  The  young  woman  who 
brought  me  acquainted  with  Captain  Murderer  had  a 
fiendish  enjoyment  of  my  terrors,  and  used  to  begin.  Ire- 
member, — as  a  sort  of  introductory  overture, — by  clawing 
the  air  with  both  hands,  and  uttering  a  long,  low,  hollow 
groan.  So  acutely  did  I  suffer  from  this  ceremony  in 
combination  with  this  infernal  Captain,  that  I  sometimes 
used  to  plead  I  thought  I  was  hardly  strong  enough  and 
old  enough  to  hear  the  story  again  just  yet.  But  she  never 
spared  me  one  word  of  it,  and  indeed  commended  the 
awful  chalice  to  my  lips  as  the  only  preservative  known 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  427 


to  science  against  'The  Black  Cat/' — a  weird  and  glar- 
ing-eyed supernatural  Tom,  who  was  reputed  to  prowl 
about  the  world  by  night,  sucking  the  breath  of  infancy, 
and  who  was  endowed  with  a  special  thirst  (as  I  was 
given  to  understand)  for  mine. 

This  female  bard — may  she  have  been  repaid  my  debt 
of  obligation  to  her  in  the  matter  of  nightmares  and  per- 
spirations ! — reappears  in  my  memory  as  the  daughter  of 
a  shipwright.  Her  name  was  Mercy,  though  she  had 
none  on  me.  There  was  something  of  a  ship-building 
flavour  in  the  following  story.  As  it  always  recurs  to 
me  in  a  vague  association  with  calomel  pills,  I  believe  it 
to  have  been  reserved  for  dull  nights,  when  I  was  low 
with  medicine. 

There  was  once  a  shipwright,  and  he  wrought  in  a 
Government  Yard,  and  his  name  was  Chips.  And  his 
father's  name  before  him  was  Chips,  and  Jiis  father's 
name  before  him  was  Chips,  and  they  were  all  Chipses. 
And  Chips  the  father  had  sold  himself  to  the  Devil  for 
an  iron  pot  and  a  bushel  of  tenpenny  nails  and  half  a  ton 
of  copper  and  a  rat  that  could  speak  ;  and  Chips  the 
grandfather  had  sold  himself  to  the  Devil  for  an  iron  pot 
and  a  bushel  of  tenpenny  nails  and  half  a  ton  of  copper 
and  a  rat  that  could  speak  ;  and  Chips  the  great-grand- 
father had  disposed  of  himself  in  the  same  direction,  on 
the  same  terms  ;  and  the  bargaii^had  run  in  the  family 
for  a  long,  long  time.  So  one  day,  when  young  Chips 
was  at  work  in  the  Dock  Slip  all  alone,  down  in  the  dark 
hold  of  an  old  Seventy-four  that  was  hauled  up  for  re- 
pairs, the  Devil  presented  himself  and  remarked  : — 

*'  A  Lemon  has  pips. 
And  a  Yard  has  ships, 
And  r\\  have  Chips  !  " 

(I  don't  know  why,  but  this  fact  of  the  Devil's  express- 
ing himself  in  rhyme  was  peculiarly  trying  to  me.) 
Chips  looked  up  when  he  heard  the  words,  and  there  he 
saw  the  Devil,  with  saucer  eyes  that  squinted  on  a  ter- 
rible scale,  and  that  struck  out  sparks  of  blue  fire  con- 
tinually. And  whenever  he  winked  his  his  eyes,  showers 
of  blue  sparks  came  out,  and  his  eyelashes  made  a  clat- 
tering like  flints  and  steels  striking  lights.  And  hanging 
over  one  of  his  arms  by  the  handle  was  an  iron  pot,  and 
under  that  arm  was  a  bushel  of  tenpenny  nails,  and  un- 
der the  other  arm  was  half  a  ton  of  copper,  and  sitting 
on  one  of  his  shoulders  was  a  rat  that  could  speak.  So  the 
Devil  said  again  : — 

**  A  Lemon  has  pips, 
And  a  Yard  has  s^hips, 
And      have  Chips  I 


428 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


(The  invariable  effect  of  tfiis  alarming  tautology  on  the^ 
part  of  the  Evil  Spirit  was  to  deprive  me  of  my  senses 
for  some  moments.)  So  Chips  answered  never  a  word, 
but  went  on  with  his  work.  * '  What  are  you  doing  Chips  ?  " 
said  the  rat  that  could  speak.  I  am  putting  in  new 
planks  where  you  and  your  gang  have  eaten  old  away," 
said  Chips.  But  we'll  eat  them  too,"  said  the  rat  that 
could  speak  :  **and  we'll  let  in  the  water  and  dr^wn  the 
crew,  and  we'll  eat  them  too."  Chips,  being  only  a  ship- 
wright, and  not  a  Man-of-war's  man,  said,  *'You  are 
welcome  to  it."  But  he  couldn't  keep  his  eyes  off  the 
half  a  ton  of  copper  or  the  bushel  of  tenpenny  nails  ;  for 
nails  and  copper  are  a  shipwright's  sweethearts,  and  ship- 
wrights will  run  away  with  them  whenever  they  can. 
So  the  Devil  said,  "  I  see  what  you  are  looking  at.  Chips. 
You  had  better  strike  the  bargain.  You  know  the  terms. 
Your  father  before  you  was  well  acquainted  with  them, 
and  so  were  your  grandfather  and  great-grandfather 
before  him."  Says  Chips,  I  like  the  copper,  and  I  like 
the  nails,  and  I  don't  mind  the  pot,  but  I  don't  like  the 
rat."  Says  the  Devil,  fiercely,  '*You  can't  have  the 
metal  without  him, — and  he's  a  curiosity.  I'm  going.** 
Chips,  afraid  of  losing  the  half  a  ton  of  copper  and  the 
bushel  of  nails,  then  said,  "  Give  us  hold  ! "  So  he  got 
the  copper  and  the  nails  and  the  pot,  and  the  rat  that 
could  speak,  and  the  Devil  vanished.  Chips  sold  the 
copper,  and  he  sold  the  nails,  and  he  would  have  sold  the 
pot,  but  whenever  he  offered  it  for  sale,  the  rat  was  in  it, 
and  the  dealers  dropped  it,  and  would  have  nothing  to 
say  to  the  bargain.  So  Chips  resolved  to  kill  the  rat,  and. 
being  at  work  in  the  Yard  one  day,  with  a  great  kettle  o^ 
hot  pitch  on  one  side  of  him  and  the  iron  pot  with  the 
rat  in  it  on  the  other,  he  turned  the  scalding  pitch  into 
the  pot,  and  filled  it  full.  Then  he  kept  his  eye  upon 
it  till  it  cooled  and  hardened,  and  then  he  let  it  stand  for 
twenty  days,  and  then  he  heated  the  pitch  again,  and 
turned  it  back  into  the  kettle,  and  then  he  sank  the  pot 
in  water  for  twenty  days  more,  and  then  he  got  the 
smelters  to  put  it  in  the  furnace  for  twenty  days  more, 
and  then  they  gave  it  him  out,  red-hot,  and  looking  like 
red-hot  glass  instead  of  iron, — yet  there  was  the  rat  in  it, 
just  the  same  as  ever  I  And  the  moment  it  caught  his 
eye,  it  said  with  a  jeer  : — 

*' A  Lemon  has  pips^ 
And  a  Yard  has  ships, 
And  r\\  have  Chips  !" 

(For  this  Refrain  I  had  waited  since  its  last  appearance 
with  inexpressible  horror,  which  now  culminated.) 
Chips  now  felt  certain  in  his  own  mind  that  the  rat 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  439 


would  stick  to  him  ;  the  rat,  answering  his  thought, 
said,      will, — like  pitch  !  " 

Now,  as  the  rat  leaped  out  of  the  pot  when  it  had 
spoken,  and  made  off,  Chips  began  to  hope  that  it 
wouldn't  keep  its  word.  But  a  terrible  thing  happened 
next  day.  For  when  dinner-time  came  and  the  Dock- 
bell  rang  to  strike  work,  he  put  his  rule  into  the  long 
pocket  at  the  side  of  his  trousers,  and  there  he  found  a 
rat, — not  that  rat,  but  another  rat.  And  in  his  hat  he 
found  another  ;  and  in  his  pocket-handkerchief  another  ; 
and  in  the  sleeves  of  his  coat,  when  he  pulled  it  on  to  go 
to  dinner,  two  more.  And  from  that  time  he  found  him- 
self so  frightfully  intimate  with  all  the  rats  in  the  Yard, 
that  they  climbed  up  his  legs  when  he  was  at  work,  and 
sat  on  his  tools  while  he  used  them.  And  they  could  all 
speak  to  one  another,  and  he  understood  what  they  said. 
And  they  got  into  his  lodging,  and  into  his  bed,  and  into 
his  tea-pot,  and  into  his  beer,  and  into  his  boots.  And 
he  was  going  to  be  married  to  a  corn-chandler's  daugh- 
ter  ;  and  when  he  gave  her  a  work-box  he  had  himself 
made  for  her  a  rat  jumped  out  of  it ;  and  when  he  put 
his  arm  around  her  waist,  a  rat  clung  about  her  ;  so  the 
marriage  broken  off,  though  the  bans  were  already 
twice  put  up, — which  the  parish  clerk  well  remembers, 
for,  as  he  handed  the  book  to  the  clergyman  for  the 
second  time  of  asking,  a  large  fat  rat  ran  over  the  leaf. 
(By  this  time  a  special  cascade  of  rats  was  rolling  down 
my  back,  and  the  whole  of  my  small  listening  person 
was  overrun  with  them.  At  intervals  ever  since  I  have 
been  morbidly  afraid  of  my  own  pocket,  lest  ray  explor- 
ing hand  should  find  a  specimen  or  two  of  those  vermin 
in  it.) 

You  may  believe  that  all  this  was  very  terrible  to 
Chips  ;  but  even  all  this  was  not  the  worst.  He  knew, 
besides,  what  the  rats  were  doing,  wherever  they  were. 
So  sometimes  he  would  cry  aloud,  Avhen  he  was  at  his 
club  at  night,  "  O,  keep  the  rats  out  of  the  convicts' 
burying-ground  !  Don't  let  them  do  that !"  or,  There's 
one  of  them  at  the  cheese  down-stairs  !  "  or,  There's 
two  of  them  smelling  at  the  baby  in  the  garret ! "  or 
other  things  of  that  sort.  At  last  he  was  voted  mad, 
and  lost  his  work  in  the  Yard,  and  could  get  no  other 
work.  But  King  George  wanted  men,  so  before  very 
long  he  got  pressed  for  a  sailor.  And  so  he  was  taken 
off  in  a  boat  one  evening  to  his  ship,  lying  at  Spithead, 
ready  to  sail.  And  so  the  first  thing  he  made  out  in  her, 
was  the  figure-head  of  the  old  Seventy-four,  where  he 
had  seen  the  Devil.  She  was  called  the  Argonaut," 
and  they  rowed  right  under  the  bowsprit  where  the  fig- 
ure-head of  the  Argonaut,  with  a  sheep-skin  in  his  hand 
and  a  blue  gown  on,  was  looking  out  to  sea  ;  and  sitting 


430  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Staring  on  his  forehead  was  the  rat  who  could  speak, 
and  his  exact  words  were  these:  Chips  ahoy  I  Old 
boy  I  We've  pretty  well  eat  them  too,  and  we'll  drown 
the  crew,  and  will  eat  them  too  I  "  (Here  I  always  be- 
came exceedingly  faint,  and  would  have  asked  for  water 
but  that  I  was  speechless.) 

The  ship  was  bound  for  the  Indies  ;  and  if  you  don't 
know  where  that  is,  you  ought  to  it,  and  angels  will 
never  love  you.  (Here  I  felt  myself  outcast  from  a 
future  state.)  The  ship  set  sail  that  very  night,  and  she 
sailed,  and  sailed,  and  sailed.  Chip's  feelings  were 
dreadful.  Nothing  ever  equalled  his  terrors.  No  wor^ 
der.  At  last,  one  day,  he  asked  leave  to  speak  to  the 
Admiral.  The  Admiral  giv'  leave.  Chips  went  down 
on  his  knees  in  the  Great  State  Cabin,  **  Your  Honour, 
unless  your  Honour,  without  a  moment's  loss  of. time, 
makes  sail  for  the  nearest  shore,  this  is  a  doomed  ship, 
and  her  nam©  is  the  Coffin  !  "  "  Young  man,  your  words 
are  a  madman's  words."  Your  Honour,  no  ;  they  are 
nibbling  us  away."  *'They?"  **Your  Honour,  them 
dreadful  rats.  Dust  and  hollowness  where  solid  oak 
ought  to  be  !  Rats  nibbling  a  grave  for  every  man  on 
board  I  Oh!  Does  your  Honour  love  ydhr  lady  and 
your  pretty  children?"  Yes,  my  man,  to  be  sure." 
Then,  for  God's  sake,  make  for  the  nearest  shore  ;  for  at 
this  present  moment  the  rats  are  all  stopping  in  their 
work,  and  are  all  looking  straight  towards  you  with  bare 
teeth,  and  are  all  saying  to  one  another  that  you  shall 
never,  never,  see  your  lady  and  your  children  more." 

My  poor  fellow,  you  are  a  case  for  the  doctor.  Sentry 
take  care  of  this  man  !  " 

So  he  was  bled,  and  he  was  blistered,  and  he  was 
this  and  that,  for  six  whole  days  and  nights.  So  then  he 
again  asked  leave  to  speak  to  the  Admiral.  The  Admiral 
giv'  leave.  He  went  down  on  his  knees  in  the  Great 
State  Cabin.  "  Now,  Admiral,  you  must  die  !  You  took 
no  warning  ;  you  must  die  !  The  rats  are  never  wrong 
in  their  calculations,  and  they  make  out  that  they'll  be 
through  at  twelve  to-night.  So  j^oumust  die  ! — with  me 
and  all  the  rest  !  "  And  so  at  twelve  o'clock  there  was  a 
great  leak  reported  in  the  ship,  and  a  torrent  of  water 
rushed  in  and  nothing  could  stop  it ;  and  they  all  went 
down,  every  living  soul.  And  what  the  rats — beirjg 
water-rats — left  of  Chips  at  last  floated  to  shore,  and  sit- 
ting on  him  was  an  immense  overgrown  rat,  laughing, 
that  dived  when  the  corpse  touched  the  beach,  and  never 
came  up.  And  there  was  a  deal  of  sea- weed  on  the  re- 
mains. And  if  you  get  thirteen  bits  of  sea-weed,  and 
dry  them  and  burn  them  in  the  fire,  they  will  go  off  like 
in  these  thirteen  words  as  plain  as  plain  can  be  : — 


THE  UNCOMMEIiCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


431 


*'  A  Lemon  has  pips, 
And  a  Yard  has  ships, 
And  r\e  got  Chips  ! 

The  same  female  bard — descended,  possibly,  from 
those  terrible  old  Scalds  who  seem  to  have  existed  for 
the  express  purpose  of  addling  the  brains  ef  mankind 
when  they  be^in  to  investigate  languages — made  a  stand- 
ing pretence  which  greatly  assisted  in  forcing  me  back 
to  a  number  of  hideous  places  that  I  would  by  all  means 
have  avoided.  This  pretence  was,  that  all  her  ghost 
stories  had  occurred  to  her  own  relations.  Politeness 
towards  a  meritorious  family,  therefore,  forbade  my 
doubting  them,  and  they  acquired  an  air  of  authentica- 
tion that  impaired  my  digestive  powers  for  life.  There 
was  a  narrative  concerning  an  unearthly  animal  fore- 
boding death,  which  appeared  in  the  open  street  to  a 
parlour  maid  who  went  to  fetch  the  beer"  for  supper  ; 
first  (as  I  now  recall  it)  assuming  the  likeness  of  a  black 
dog,  and  gradually  rising  on  its  hind  legs  and  swelling 
into  the  semblance  of  some  quadruped  greatly  surpassing 
a  hippopotamus  ;  which  apparition — not  because  I  deemed 
i+  in  the  least  improbable,  but  because  I  felt  it  to  be 
really  too  large  to  bear — I  feebly  endeavared  to  explain 
away.  But  on  Mercy's  retorting,  with  wounded  dignity, 
that  the  parlour-maid  was  her  own  sister-in-law,  I  per- 
ceived there  was  no  hope,  and  resigned  myself  to  this 
zoological  phenomenon  as  one  of  my  many  pursuers. 
There  was  another  narrative  describing  the  apparition  of 
a  young  woman  who  came  out  of  a  glass  case  and 
haunted  another  young  woman,  until  the  other  young 
woman  questioned  it,  and  elicited  that  its  bones  (Lord  I 
To  think  of  its  being  so  particular  about  its  bones  I) 
were  buried  under  the  glass  case,  whereas  she  required 
them  to  be  interred,  with  every  Undertaking  solemnity 
up  to  twenty-four  pound  ten,  in  another  particular 
place.  Th.3  narrative  I  considered  I  had  a  personal  in- 
terest  in  disproving,  because  we  had  glass  cases  at  home, 
and  how,  otherwise,  was  I  to  be  guaranteed  from  the 
intrusion  of  young  women  requiring  7ne  to  bury  them  up 
to  twenty-four  pound  ten,  when  I  had  only  twopence  a 
week?  But  my  remorseless  nurse  cut  the  ground  from 
under  my  tender  feet,  by  informing  me  that  She  was  the 
other  young  woman  ;  and  I  couldn't  say,  *'  I  don't  believe 
you"  ;  it  was  not  possible. 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  uncommercial  journeys  that  I 
was  forced  to  make,  against  my  will,  when  I  was  very 
young  and  unreasoning.  And  really,  as  to  the  latter 
part  of  them,  it  is  not  so  very  long  ago — now  I  come  to 
think  of  it — that  I  was  asked  to  undertake  them  once 
again,  with  a  steady  countenance. 


432 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


XVI. 

Arcadian  London 

Being  in  a  humor  for  complete  solitude  and  uninter- 
rupted meditation  this  autumn,  I  have  taken  a  lodging  for 
six  weeks  in  the  most  unfrequented  part  of  England, — 
in  a  word,  in  London. 

The  retreat  into  which  I  have  withdrawn  myself  is 
Bond  Street.  From  this  lonely  spot  I  make  pilgrimages 
into  the  surrounding  wilderness,  and  traverse  extensive 
tracts  of  the  Great  Desert.  The  first  solemn  feeling  of 
isolation  overcome,  the  first  oppressive  consciousness  of 
profound  retirement  conquered,  I  enjoy  that  sense  of 
freedom,  and  feel  reviving  within  me  that  latent  wild- 
ness  of  the  original  savage,  which  has  been  (upon  the 
whole  somewhat  frequently)  noticed  by  Travellers. 

My  lodgings  are  at  a  hatter's, — my  own  hatter's.  Af- 
ter exhibiting  no  articles  in  his  window  for  some  weeks 
but  seaside  wide-awakes,  shooting-caps,  and  a  choice  of 
rough  waterproof  head-gear  for  the  moors  and  moun- 
tains, he  has  put  upon  the  heads  of  his  family  as  much 
of  this  stock  as  they  could  carry,  and  has  taken  them 
off  to  the  Isle  of  Thanet.  His  young  man  alone  remains 
— and  remains  alone — in  the  shop.  The  young  man  has 
let  out  the  fire  at  which  the  irons  are  heated,  and,  saving 
his  strong  sense  of  duty,  I  see  no  reason  why  he  should 
take  the  shutters  down. 

Happily  for  himself  and  for  his  country,  the  young 
man  is  a  Volunteer  ;  most  happily  for  himself,  or  I  think 
he  would  become  the  prey  of  a  settled  melancholy.  For 
to  live  surrounded  by  human  hats,  and  alienated  from 
human  heads  to  fit  them  on,  is  surely  a  great  endurance. 
But  the  voung  man,  sustained  by  practicing  his  exercise, 
and  by  constantly  furbishing  up  his  regulation  plume 
(it  is  unnecessary  to  observe  that,  as  a  hatter,  he  is  in  a 
cock's- feather  corps),  ip  resigned  and  uncomplaining. 
On  a  Saturday,  when  he  closes  early,  and  gets  his 
Knickerbockers  on,  he  is  even  cheerful.  I  am  gratefully 
particular  in  this  reference  to  him,  because  he  is  my 
companion  through  many  peaceful  hours.  My  hatter 
has  a  desk  up  certain  steps  behind  his  counter,  enclosed 
like  the  clerk's  desk  at  Church.  I  shut  myself  into  this 
place  of  seclusion,  after  breakfast,  and  meditate.  At 
such  times  I  observe  the  young  man  loading  an  imagin- 
ary rifle  with  the  greatest  precision,  and  maintaining  a 
most  galling  and  destructive  fire  upon  the  national  en- 
emy. I  thank  him  publicly  for  his  companionship  and 
Ids  patriotism. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLEK. 


433 


The  simple  character  of  my  life,  and  the  calm  nature 
of  the  scenes  hy  which  I  am  surrounded,  occasion  me  to 
rise  early.  I  go  forth  in  my  slippers,  and  promenade 
the  pavement.  It  is  pastoral  to  feel  the  freshness  of  the 
air  in  the  uninhabited  town,  and  to  appreciate  the  shep- 
herdess character  of  the  few  milk- women  who  purvey  so 
little  milk  that  it  would  be  worth  nobody's  while  to 
adulterate  it,  if  anybody  were  left  to  undertake  the 
task.  On  the  crowded  sea-shore,  the  great  demand  for 
milk,  combined  with  the  strong  local  teraptation  of 
chalk  would  betray  itself  in  the  lowered  quality  of  the 
article.    In  Arcadian  London,  I  derive  it  from  the  cow. 

The  Arcadian  simplicity  of  the  metropolis  altogether, 
and  the  primitive  ways  into  which  it  has  fallen  in  this 
autumnal  Golden  Age,  make  it  entirely  new  to  me. 
Within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  my  retreat  is  the  house 
of  a  friend  who  maintains  a  most  sumptuous  butler.  I 
never,  until  yesterday,  saw  that  butler  out  of  superfine 
black  broadcloth.  Until  yesterday  I  never  saw  him  off 
duty,  never  saw  him  (he  is  the  best  of  butlers)  with  the 
appearance  of  having  any  mind  for  anything  but  the 
srlor}'  of  his  master  and  his  master's  friends.  Yesterday 
morning,  walking  in  my  slippers  near  the  house  of  which 
he  is  the  prop  and  ornament, — a  house  now  a  waste  of 
shutters, — I  encountered  that  butler,  also  in  his  slippers, 
and  in  a  shooting  suit  of  one  colour,  and  in  a  low- 
crowned  straw  hat,  smoking  an  early  cigar.  He  felt 
that  we  had  formerly  met  in  another  state  of  existence, 
and  that  we  were  translated  into  a  new  sphere.  Wisely 
and  well,  he  passed  me  without  recognition.  Under  his 
arm  he  carried  the  morning  paper,  and  shortly  after- 
wards I  saw  him  sitting  on  a  rail  in  the  pleasant  open 
landscape  of  Regent  Street  persuing  it  at  his  ease  under 
the  ripening  sun. 

My  landlord  having  taken  his  whole  establishment  t© 
be  salted  down,  I  am  waited  on  by  an  elderly  woman 
labouring  under  a  chronic  sniff,  who,  at  the  shadowy 
hour  of  half  past  nine  o'clock  of  every  evening,  gives  ad- 
mittance at  the  street  door  to  a  meagre  and  mouldy  old 
man,  who  I  have  never  yet  seen  detached  from  a  flat 
pint  of  beer  in  a  pewter  pot.  The  meagre  and  mouldy 
old  man  is  her  husband,  and  the  pair  have  a  dejected 
consciousness  that  they  are  not  justified  in  appearing  or 
the  surface  of  the  earth.  They  come  out  of  some  hole 
when  London  empties  itself,  and  go  in  again  when  it 
fills.  I  saw  them  arrive  on  the  evening  when  I  myself 
took  possession,  and  they  arrived  with  the  flat  pint  of 
beer,  and  their  bed  in  a  bundle.  The  old  man  is  a  weak 
old  man,  and  appeared  to  me  to  get  the  bed  down  the 
kitchen  stairs  by  tumbling  down  with  and  upon  it. 
They  make  their  bed  in  the  lowest  and  remotest  comer 


4^4  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

of  the  basement,  and  they  smell  of  bed, — and  have  no 
possession  but  bed, — unless  it  be  (which  I  rather  infer 
from  an  undercurrent  of  favour  in  them)  cheese.  I 
know  their  name  through  the  chance  of  having  called 
the  wife's  attention,  afc  half  past  nine  on  the  second 
evening  of  our  acquaintance,  to  the  circumstance  of 
there  being  some  one  at  the  house  door  ;  when  she  apol- 
ogetically explained,  *'It's  only  Mr.  Klem."  What  be- 
comes of  Mr.  Klem  all  day,  or  w^hen  he  goes  out,  or 
why,  is  a  mystery  I  cannot  penetrate  ;  but  at  half  past 
nine  he  never  fails  to  turn  up  on  the  doorstep  with  the 
fiat  pint  of  beer.  And  the  pint  of  beer,  flat  as  it  is,  is 
so  much  more  important  than  himself,  that  it  always 
seems  to  my  fancy  as  if  it  had  found  him  drivelling  in 
the  street,  and  had  humanely  brought  him  home.  In 
making  his  way  below,  Mr.  Klem  never  goes  down  the 
middle  of  the  passage,  like  another  Christian,  but  shuf- 
fles against  the  wall*  as  if  entreating  me  to  take  notice 
that  he  is  occupying  as  little  space  as  possible  in  the 
house  ;  and  whenever  I  come  upon  him  face  to  face,  he 
backs  from  me  in  fascinated  confusion.  The  most  ex- 
traordinary circumstance  I  have  traced  in  connection 
with  this  aged  couple  is  that  there  is  a  Miss  Klem,  their 
daughter,  apparently  ten  years  older  than  either  of 
them,  who  has  also  a  bed,  and  smells  of  it,  and  carries 
it  about  the  earth  at  dusk,  and  hides  it  in  deserted 
houses.  I  came  into  this  piece  of  knowledge  through 
Mrs.  Klem's  beseeching  me  to  sanction  the  sheltering  of 
Miss  Klem  under  that  roof  for  a  single  night,  between 
her  takin'  care  of  the  upper  part  in  Pall  Mall  which  the 
family  of  his  back,  and  a  'ouse  in  Serjameses  Street, 
which  the  family  of  leaves  town  ter-morrer.''  I  gave 
my  gracious  consent  (having  nothing  that  I  know  of  to 
do  with  it)  ;  and  in  the  shadowy  hours  Miss  Klem  be- 
came perceptible  on  the  doorstep,  wrestling  with  a  bed 
in  a  bundle.  Where  she  made  it  up  for  the  night  1 
cannot  positively  state,  but  I  think  in  a  sink.  I  know 
that,  with  the  instinct  of  a  reptile  or  an  insect,  she 
stowed  it  and  herself  aw^ay  in  deep  obscurity.  In  the 
Klem  family  I  have  noticed  another  remarkable  gift  of 
nature,  and  that  is  a  power  they  possess  of  converting 
everything  into  flue.  Such  broken  victuals  as  they  tak* 
by  stealth  appear  (whatever  the  nature  of  the  viands) 
invariably  to  generate  flue;  and  even  the  nightly  pint 
of  beer,  instead  of  assimilating  naturally,  strikes  me  as 
breaking  out  in  that  form  equally  on  the  shabby  gown 
of  Mrs.  Klem  and  the  threadbare  coat  of  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Klem  has  no  idea  of  my  name, — as  to  Mr.  Klem, 
he  has  no  idea  of  anything, — and  only  knows  me  as  her 
good  gentleman.  Thus,  if  doubtful  whether  I  am  in  my 
room  or  no,  Mrs.  Klem  taps  at  the  door,  and  says,  **  Is 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLER. 


435 


my  good  gentleman  here  ?  "  Or,  if  a  messenger  desir- 
ing to  see  me  were  consistent  with  my  solitude,  she 
would  show  him  in  with,  **Here  is  my  good  gentleman." 
I  find  this  to  be  u  generic  custom.  For  I  meant  to  have 
observed,  before  now,  that  in  its  Arcadian  time  all  my 
part  of  London  is  indistinctly  pervaded  by  the  Klem 
species.  They  creep  about  with  beds,  and  go  to  bed  in 
miles  of  deserted  houses.  They  hold  no  companionship 
except  that  sometimes,  after  dark,  two  of  them  will 
emerge  from  opposite  houses,  and  meet  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  as  on  neutral  ground,  or  will  peep  from  adjoin- 
ing houses  over  an  interposing  barrier  of  area  railings, 
and  compare  a  few  reserved,  mistrustful  notes  respect- 
ing their  good  ladies  or  good  gentlemen.  This  I  have 
discovered  in  the  course  of  various  solitary  rambles  I 
have  taken  Northward  from  my  retirement,  along  the 
awful  perspectives  of  Wimpole  Street,  Harley  Street, 
and  similar  frowning  regions.  Their  effect  would  be 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  that  of  the  primeval  for- 
ests, but  for  the  Klem  stragglers  ;  these  may  be  dimly 
observed,  when  the  heavy  shadows  fall,  flitting  to  and 
fro,  putting  up  the  door-chain,  taking  in  the  pint  of 
^leer,  lowering,  like  phantoms,  at  the  dark  parlour  win- 
dows, or  secretly  consorting  underground  with  the  dust- 
bin and  the  water  cistern. 

In  the  Burlington  Arcade,  I  observe,  with  peculiar 
pleasure,  a  primitive  state  of  manners  to  have  super- 
seded the  baneful  influences  of  ultra  civilization.  Noth- 
ing can  surpass  the  innocence  of  the  ladies'  shoe-shops, 
the  artificial-flower  repositories,  and  the  head-dress  de- 
pots. They  are  in  strange  hands  at  this  time  of  year, 
— hands  of  unaccustomed  persons,  who  are  imperfectly 
acquainted  with  the  prices  of  the  goods,  and  contemplate 
them  with  unsophisticated  detig-lit  and  wonder.  The 
children  of  these  virtuous  people  exchange  familiarities 
in  the  Arcade,  and  temper  the  asperity  of  the  two  tall 
beadles.  Their  youthful  prattle  blends  in  an  unwonted 
manner  with  the  harmonious  shade  of  the  scene,  and 
the  general  effect  is  as  of  the  voices  of  birds  in  a  grove. 
In  this  happy  restoration  of  the  golden  time,  it  has  been 
my  privilege  even  to  see  the  bigger  beadle's  wife.  She 
brought  him  his  dinner  in  a  basin,  and  he  ate  it  in  his 
arm-chair,  and  afterwards  fell  asleep  like  a  satiated  child. 
At  Mr.  Truefiit's,  the  excellent  hairdresser's,  they  are 
learning  French  to  beguile  the  time  ;  and  even  the  few 
solitaries  left  on  guard  at  Mr.  Atkinson's,  the  perfumer's 
round  the  corner  (generally  the  most  inexorable  gentle- 
man in  London,  and  the  most  scornful  of  three  and  six- 
pence), condescend  a  little,  as  they  drowsily  bide  or  re- 
call their  turn  of  chasing  the  ebbing  Neptune  on  the 
ribbed  sea  sand.    From  Messrs.  Hunt  and  RoskeH's,  the 


436 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


jewellers,  all  things  are  absent  but  the  precious  stones, 
and  the  gold  and  silver,  and  tlie  soldierly  pensioner  at 
the  door,  with  his  decorated  breast.  I  might  stand  night 
and  day,  for  a  month  to  come,  in  Saville  Row,  with  my 
tongue  out,  yet  not  find  a  doctor  to  look  at  it  for  love  or 
money.  The  dentists'  instruments  are  rusting  in  their 
drawers,  and  their  horrible  cool  parlours,  where  people 
pretend  to  read  the  Every- Day  Book  and  not  to  be  afraid 
are  doing  penance  for  their  grimness  in  white  sheets. 
The  light-weight  of  shrewd  appearance,  with  one  eye 
always  shut  up,  as  if  he  were  eating  a  sharp  gooseberry 
in  all  seasons,  who  usually  stands  at  the  gateway  of  the 
livery-stables  on  very  little  legs  under  a  very  large 
waistcoat,  has  gone  to  Doncaster.  Of  such  undesigning 
aspect  is  his  guileless  yard  now,  with  its  gravel  and 
scarlet  beans,  and  the  yellow  Break  housed  und  t  a  glass 
roof  in  the  corner,  that  I  almost  believe  I  could  not  be 
taken  in  there,  if  I  tried.  In  the  places  of  business  of 
the  great  tailors,  the  cheval-glasses  are  dim  and  dusty 
for  lack  of  being  looked  into.  Ranges  of  brown  paper 
3oat  and  waistcoat  bodies  look  as  funereal  as  if  they  were 
the  hatchments  of  the  customers  with  whose  names  they 
are  inscribed;  the  measuring-tapes  hang  idle  on  the  wall  ; 
the  order-taker,  left  on  the  hopeless  chance  of  some  one 
looking  in,  yawns  in  the  last  extremity  over  the  book  of 
patterns,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  read  that  entertaining 
library.  The  hotels  in  Brook  Street  have  no  one  in  them, 
and  the  staffs  of  servants  stare  disconsolately  for  next 
season  out  of  all  the  windows.  The  very  man  who  goes 
about  like  an  erect  Turtle  between  two  boards  recommen- 
datory of  the  Sixteen  Shilling  Trousers  is  aware  of  him- 
self as  a  hollow  mockery,  and  eats  filberts  while  he  leans 
his  hinder  shell  against  a  wall. 

Among  these  tranquillizing  objects  it  is  my  delight  to 
walk  and  meditate.  Soothed  by  the  repose  around  me, 
I  wander  insensibly  to  considerable  distances,  and  guide 
myself  back  by  the  stars.  Thus  I  enjoy  the  contrast  of 
a  few  still  partially  inhabited  and  busy  spots,  where  all 
the  lights  are  not  fled,  where  all  the  garlands  are  not 
dead,  whence  all  but  I  have  not  departed.  Then  does  it 
appear  to  me  that  in  this  age  three  things  are  clamor- 
ously required  of  Man  in  the  miscellaneous  thoroughfares 
of  the  metropolis.  Firstly,  that  he  have  his  boots 
cleaned.  Secondly,  that  he  eat  a  penny  ice.  Thirdly, 
that  he  get  himself  photographed.  Then  do  I  speculate, 
what  have  those  seam-worn  artists  been  who  stand  at 
the  photograph  doors  in  Greek  caps,  sample  in  hand,  and 
my steriously  sal ute  the  public— the  female  public  with  a 
pressing  tenderness — to  come  in  and  be  took  "  ?  What 
did  they  do  with  their  greasy  blandishments  before  the 
era  of  cheap  photography  ?   Of  what  class  were  their 


THE  UNCOMMEKCIAL  TKAVELLER. 


437 


previous  victims,  and  how  victimized  ?  And  how  did 
they  get,  and  how  did  they  pay  for,  that  large  collection 
of  likenesses,  all  purporting  to  have  been  taken  inside, 
with  the  taking  of  none  of  which  had  that  establieh- 
ment  any  more  to  do  than  with  the  taking  of  Delhi  ? 

But  these  are  small  oases,  and  I  am  soon  back  again 
in  metropolitan  Arcadia.  It  is  my  impression  that  much 
of  its  serene  and  peaceful  character  is  attributable  to 
the  absence  of  customary  Talk.  How  do  I  know  but 
there  may  be  subtle  influences  in  Talk  to  vex  the  souls 
of  men  who  don't  hear  it  ?  How  do  I  know  but  that 
Talk,  five,  ten,  twenty  miles  oif,  may  get  into  the  air  and 
disagree  with  me?  If  I  rise  from  my  bed  vaguely 
troubled  and  wearied  and  sick  of  my  life  in  the  session 
of  Parliament,  who  shall  say  that  my  noble  friend,  my 
right  reverend  friend,  my  right  honourable  friend,  my 
honourable  friend,  my  honourable  and  learned  friend,  or 
my  honourable  and  gallant  friend,  may  not  be  responsible 
for  that  effect  upon  my  nervous  system?  Too  much 
Ozone  in  the  air,  I  am  informed  and  fully  believe  (though  I 
have  no  idea  what  it  is),  would  affect  me  in  a  marvellously 
disagreeable  way  ;  why  may  not  too  much  Talk  ?  I  don't 
see  or  hear  the  Ozone  ;  I  don't  see  or  hear  the  Talk.  And 
there  is  so  much  Talk  ;  so  much  too  much  ;  such  loud 
cry,  and  such  scant  supply  of  wool ;  such  a  deal  of  fleec- 
ing, and  so  little  fleece  !  Hence,  in  the  Arcadian  season, 
I  find  it  a  delicious  triumph  to  walk  down  to  deserted 
Westminster  and  see  the  Courts  shut  up  ;  to  walk  a  little 
farther  and  see  the  Two  Houses  shut  up  ;  to  stand  in  the 
Abbey  Yard,  like  the  New-Zealander  of  the  grand  Eng- 
lish History  (concerning  which  unfortunate  man  a  whole 
rookery  of  mares'  nests  is  generally  being  discovered), 
and  gloat  upon  the  ruins  of  Talk.  Returning  to  my 
primitive  solitude,  and  lying  down  to  sleep,  my  grateful 
heart  expands  with  the  consciousness  that  there  is  no 
adjourned  Debate,  no  ministerial  explanation,  nobody  to 
give  notice  of  intention  to  ask  the  noble  Lord  at  the 
head  of  her  Majesty's  government  five-and- twenty  boot- 
less questions  in  one,  no  term-time  with  legal  argument, 
no  Nisi  Prius  with  eloquent  appeal  to  British  Jury  ;  that 
the  air  will  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
remain  untroubled  by  this  superabundant  generating  of 
Talk.  In  a  minor  degree  it  is  a  delicious  triumph  to  me 
to  go  into  the  club,  and  see  the  carpets  up,  and  the  Bores 
and  the  other  dust  dispersed  to  the  four  winds.  Again, 
New-Zeal ander-like,  I  stand  on  the  cold  hearth,  and  say 
in  the  solitude  :  **Here  I  watched  Bore  A  1,  with  voice 
always  mysteriously  low,  and  head  always  mysteriously 
drooped,  whispering  political  secrets  into  the  ears  of 
Adam's  confiding  children.  Accursed  be  his  memory 
forever  and  a  day  I  " 


438  WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


But  I  have  all  this  time  been  coming  to  the  point, 
that  the  happy  nature  of  my  retirement  is  most  sweetly 
expressed  in  its  being  the  abode  of  Love.  It  is,  as  it 
were,  an  inexpensive  Agapemone  ;  nobody's  specula- 
tion :  everybody's  profit.  The  one  great  result  of  the 
resumption  of  primitive  habits,  and  (convertible  terms) 
the  not  having  much  to  do,  is  the  abounding  of  Love. 

The  Klem  species  are  incapable  of  the  softer  emo- 
tions  ;  probably,  in  that  low,  nomadic  race,  the  softer 
emotions  have  all  degenerated  into  flue.  But,  with  this 
exception,  all  the  sharers  of  my  retreat  make  love. 

I  have  mentioned  Saville  Row.  We  all  know  the 
Poctor's  servant.  We  all  know  what  a  respectab?* 
paan  he  is,  what  a  hard,  dry  man,  what  a  firm  man,  what 
?i  confidential  man  ;  how  he  lets  us  into  the  waiting-room, 
like  a  man  who  knows  minutely  what  is  the  matter  with 
us,  but  from  whom  the  rack  should  not  wring  the  secret. 
In  the  prosaic  season,''  he  has  distinctly  the  appear- 
ance of  a  man  conscious  of  money  in  the  savings  bank, 
and  taking  his  stand  on  his  respectability  with  both  feet. 
At  that  time  it  is  as  impossible  to  associate  him  with  re- 
laxation, or  any  human  weakness,  as  it  is  to  meet  his 
eye  without  feeling  guilty  of  indisposition.  In  the  blest 
Arcadian  time,  how  changed  !  I  have  seen  him  in  a 
pepper-and-salt  jacket — ^jacket — and  drab  trousers,  with 
his  arm  round  the  waist  of  a  boot-maker's  housemaid, 
smiling  in  open  day.  I  have  seen  him  at  the  pump  by 
the  Albany,  unsolicitedly  pumping  for  two  fair  young 
creatures,  whose  figures,  as  they  bent  over  their  cans, 
were — if  I  may  be  allowed  an  original  expression — a 
model  for  the  sculptor.  I  have  seen  him  trying  the 
piano  in  the  Doctor's  drawing-room  with  bis  forefinger, 
and  have  heard  him  humming  tunes  in  praise  of  lovely 
woman.  I  have  seen  him  seated  on  a  fire-engine,  and 
going  (obviously  in  search  of  excitement)  to  a  fire.  I 
saw  him,  one  moonlight  evening,  when  the  peace  and 
purity  of  our  Arcadian  west  were  at  their  height,  polk 
with  the  lovely  daughter  of  a  cleaner  of  gloves,  from 
the  doorsteps  of  his  own  residence,  across  Saville  Row, 
round  by  Clifford  Street  and  Old  Burlington  Street  back 
to  Burlington  Gardens.  Is  this  the  Golden  Age  revived, 
or  Iron  London  ? 

The  Dentist's  servant.  Is  that  man  no  mystery  to  us, 
no  type  of  invisible  power?  The  tremendous  individual 
knows  (who  else  does  ?)  what  is  done  with  the  extracted 
teeth  ;  he  knows  what  goes  on  in  the  little  room  where 
-something  is  always  being  wa!^:-hed  or  filed  ;  he  knows 
what  warm  spicy  infusion  is  put  into  the  comfortable 
tumbler  from  which  we  rinse  our  wounded  mouth,  with 
a  gap  in  it  that  feels  a  foot  wide  ;  he  know^s  whether 
the  thing  we  spit  into  is  a  fixture  communicating  with 


TilE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLER.  439 


the  Thames,  or  could  be  cleared  away  for  a  dance  ;  he 
sees  the  horrible  parlour  when  there  are  no  patients  in 
it,  and  he  could  reveal,  if  he  would,  what  becomes  of 
the  Every-Day  Book  then.  The  conviction  of  my  cow- 
ard conscience,  when  I  see  that  man  in  a  professional 
light,  is,  that  he  knows  all  the  statistics  of  my  teeth  and 
gums,  my  double  teeth,  my  single  teeth,  my  stopped 
teeth,  and  my  sound.  In  this  Arcadian  rest,  I  am  fear- 
less of  him  as  of  a  harmless,  powerless  creature  in  a 
Scotch  cap,  who  adores  a  young  lady  in  a  voluminous 
crinoline,  at  a  neighbouring  billiard-room,  and  whose 
passion  would  be  uninfluenced  if  every  one  of  her  teeth 
were  false.    They  may  be.    He  takes  them  all  on  trust. 

In  secluded  corners  of  the  place  of  my  seclusion,  there 
are  little  shops  withdrawn  from  public  curiosity,  and 
never  two  together,  where  servants'  perquisites  are 
bought.  The  cook  may  dispose  of  grease  at  these 
modest  and  convenient  marts  ;  the  butler,  of  bottles  ;  the 
valet  and  lady's  maid,  of  clothes  ;  most  servants,  indeed, 
of  most  things  they  may  happen  to  lay  hold  of.  I  have 
been  told  that  in  sterner  times  loving  correspondence 
otherwise  interdicted  may  be  maintained  by  letter 
through  the  agency  of  some  of  these  useful  establish- 
ments.  In  the  Arcadian  autumn,  no  such  device  is  ne- 
cessary. Everybody  loves,  and  openly  and  blamelessly 
loves.  My  landlord's  young  man  loves  the  whole  of  one 
side  of  the  way  of  old  Bond  Street,  and  is  beloved  sev- 
eral doors  up  new  Bond  Street  besides.  I  never  look  out 
of  window  but  I  see  kissing  of  hands  going  on  all  around 
me.  It  is  the  morning  custom  to  glide  from  shop  to 
shop  and  exchange  tender  sentiments  ;  it  is  the  evening 
3UStom  for  couples  to  stand  hand  in  hand  at  house  doors, 
or  roam,  linked  in  that  flowery  manner,  through  the  un- 
peopled streets.  There  is  nothing  else  to  do  but  love 
and  what  there  is  to  do  is  done. 

In  unison  with  this  pursuit,  a  chaste  simplicity  obtains 
in  the  domestic  habits  of  Arcadia.  Its  few  scattered 
people  dine  early,  live  moderately,  sup  socially,  and 
sleep  soundly.  It  is  rumored  that  the  Beadles'of  the 
Arcade,  from  being  the  mortal  enemies  of  the  boySj 
have  signed  with  tears  an  address  to  Lord  Shaftesbury 
and  subscribed  to  a  ragged  school.  No  wonder!  Foi 
they  might  turn  their  heavy  maces  into  crooks,  and 
tend  sheep  in  the  Arcade,  to  the  purling  of  the  water- 
;arts,  as  they  give  the  thirsty  streets  much  more  to 
drink  than  they  can  carry. 

A  happy  Golden  Age,  and  a  serene  tranquillity.  Charm- 
ing picture,  but  it  will  fade.  The  iron  age  will  return, 
London  will  come  back  to  town if  I  show  my  tongue 
then  in  Saviile  Row  for  half  a  minute  I  shall  be  pre- 
scribed for,  the  Doctor's  man  and  the  Dentist's  man  wi^"* 


440 


WOKKb  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


then  pretend  that  these  days  of  unprofessional  innocence 
never  existed.  Where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Klem  and  their 
bed  will  be  at  tht^t  time  passes  human  knowledge  ;  but 
my  hutter  hermitage  will  then  know  them  no  more,  nor 
will  it  then  know  me.  The  desk  at  which  I  have  written 
these  meditations  will  retributively  assist  at  the  making- 
out  of  my  account,  and  the  wheels  of  gorgeous  carriages 
and  the  hoofs  of  high- stepping  horses  will  crush  the  si- 
lence out  of  Bond  Street, — will  grind  Arcadia  away,  and 
give  it  to  the  elements  in  granite  powder. 


XVII. 

The  Calais  Nlght-maU, 

It  is  an  unsettled  question  with  me  whether  1  shall 
leave  Calais  something  handsome  in  my  will,  or  whether 
I  shall  leave  it  my  malediction.  I  hate  it  so  much,  and 
yet  I  am  always  so  very  glad  to  see  it,  that  I  am  in  a 
state  of  constant  indecision  on  this  subject. 

When  I  first  made  acquaintance  with  Calais,  it  was  as 
a  maundering  young  wretch  in  a  clammy  perspiration 
and  dripping  saline  particles,  who  was  conscious  of  no 
extremities  but  the  one  great  extremity,  sea-sickness, — 
who  was  a  mere  bilious  torso,  with  a  mislaid  headache 
somewhere  in  its  stomach, — who  had  been  put  into  a 
horrible  swing  in  Dover  Harbour,  and  had  tumbled  giddily 
out  of  it  on  the  French  coast,  or  the  Isle  of  Man,  or  any- 
where. Times  have  changed,  and  now  I  enter  Calais 
self-reliant  and  rational.  I  know  where  it  is  before- 
hand, I  keep  a  lookout  for  it,  I  recognize  its  landmarks 
when  I  see  any  of  them,  I  am  acquainted  with  its  ways, 
and  I  know — and  I  can  bear — its  worst  behaviour. 

Malignant  Calais  !  Low-lying  alligator,  evading  the 
eyesight  and  discouraging  hope  ?  Dodging  flat  streak, 
now  on  this  bow,  now  on  that,  now  anywhere,  now  every- 
where, now  nowhere  !  In  vain  Cape  Grinez,  coming 
frankly  forth  into  the  sea,  exhorts  the  failing  to  be  stout 
of  heart  and  stomach  ;  sneaking  Calais,  prone  behind  its 
bar,  invites  emetically  to  despair.  Even  when  it  can  no 
longer  quite  conceal  itself  in  its  muddy  dock,  it  has  an 
evil  way  of  falling  off,  has  Calais,  which  is  more  hope- 
less than  its  invisibility.  The  pier  is  all  but  on  the  bow- 
sprit, and  you  think  you  are  there — roll,  roar,  wash  \ 
Calais  has  retired  miles  inland,  and  Dover  has  burst  cut 
to  look  for  it.  It  has  a  last  dip  and  Slide  in  its  character, 
has  Calais,  to  be  sspecially  commended  to  the  Infernai 
gods.  Thrice  accursed  be  that  garrison-town,  when  it 
dives  under  the  boat's  keel,  and  comes  up  a  league  or 


THE  UNCOMMEKCIAL  TKAVELLEK. 


441 


two  to  the  right,  with  the  packet  shivering  and  splutter 
ing  and  staring  about  for  it ! 

Not  but  what  I  have  my  'animosities  towards  Dover. 
T  particularly  detest  Dover  for  the  self-complacency  with 
which  it  goes  to  bed.  It  always  goes  to  bed  (when 
I  am  going  to  Calais)  with  a  more  brilliant  display  of 
lamp  and  candle  than  any  other  town.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bir- 
mingham, host  and  hostess  of  the  Lord  Warden  Hotel,  are 
my  much  esteemed  friends  ;  but  they  are  too  conceited 
about  the  comforts  of  that  establishment  when  the  Night- 
Mail  is  starting.  I  know  it  is  a  good  house  to  stay  at, 
and  I  don't  want  the  fact  insisted  upon  in  all  its  warm 
bright  windows  at  such  an  hoT^^r.  i  knov/  the  Warden  is 
a  stationary  edifice  that  never  ^^olls  or  pitches  ;  and  1  ob- 
ject to  its  big  outline  seeming  to  insist  upon  that  circum- 
stance, and  as  it  were  to  come  over  me  with  it  when  i 
am  reeling  on  the  deck  of  the  boat.  Beshrew  the  War- 
den likewise  for  obstructing  that  corner,  and  making  the 
vfind  so  angry  as  it  rushes  round.  Shall  I  not  know 
that  it  blows  quite^soon  enough  without  the  officious 
Warden's  interference  ? 

As  I  wait  here  on  board  the  night  packet  for  the  South- 
eastern Train  to  come  down  with  the  Mail,  Dover  ap 
pears  to  me  to  be  illuminated  for  some  intensely  aggrj? 
vating  festivity  in  my  personal  dishonour.  All  its  noises 
mack  of  taunting  praises  of  the  land,  and  dispraises  of 
the  gloomy  sea,  and  of  me  for  going  on  it.  The  drums 
upon  the  heights  have  gone  to  bed,  or  I  know  they  would 
rattle  taunts  against  me  for  having  my  unsteady  footing 
on  this  slippery  deck.  The  many  gas  eyes  of  the  Marine 
Parade  twinkle  in  an  offensive  manner,  as  if  with  deri- 
sion. The  distant  dogs  of  Dover  bark  at  me  in  my  mis- 
shapen wrappers,  as  if  I  were  Richard  the  Third. 

A  screech,  a  bell,  and  two  red  eyes  come  gliding  down 
the  Admiralty  Pier  with  a  smoothness  of  motion  ren- 
dered more  smooth  by  the  heaving  of  the  boat.  The  sea 
makes  noises  against  the  pier,  as  if  several  hippopotami 
were  lapping  at  it,  and  were  prevented  by  circumstances 
over  which  they  had  no  control  from  drinking  peaceably. 
We,  the  boat,  become  violently  agitated, — rumble,  hum, 
scream,  roar,  and  establish  an  immense  family  washing- 
day  at  each  paddle-box.  Bright  patches  break  out  in 
the  train  as  the  doors  of  the  post-office  vans  are  opened  ; 
and  instantly  stooping  figures  with  sacks  upon  their 
backs  begin  to  be  beheld  among  the  piles,  descending, 
as  it  would  seem,  in  ghostly  procession  to  Davy  Jones's 
Locker.  The  passengers  come  on  board, — a  few  sha- 
dowy Frenchmen,  with  hat-boxes  shaped  like  the  stop- 
pers of  gigantic  case-bottles  ;  a  few  shadowy  Germans 
in  immense  fur  coats  and  boots  ;  a  few  shadowy  English- 
men prepared  for  the  worst,  and  pretending  not  to  ex- 


442  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


pect  it.  I  cannot  disguise  from  my  uncommercial  mind 
the  miserable  fact  that  we  are  a  body  of  outcasts  ;  that 
the  attendants  on  us  are  as  sfcant  in  number  as  may  serve 
to  get  rid  of  us  with  the  least  possible  delay  ;  that  there 
are  no  night-loungers  interested  in  us  ;  that  the  unwill- 
ing lamps  shiver  and  shudder  at  us ;  that  the  sole  ob- 
ject is  to  commit  us  to  the  deep  and  abandon  us.  Lo, 
the  two  redeyes  glaring  in  increasing  distance,  and  then 
the  very  train  itself  has  gone  to  bed  before  we  are  off  I 

What  is  the  moral  support  derived  by  some  sea-going 
ameteurs  from  an  umbrella  ?  Why  do  certain  voyagers 
across  the  Channel  always  put  up  that  article,  and  hold 
it  up  with  a  grim  and  fierce  tenacity  ?  A  fellow-creature 
Bear  me — whom  I  only  know  to  be  a  fellow-creature  be- 
cause of  his  umbrella ;  without  which  he  might  be  a 
dark  bit  of  cliff,  pier,  or  bulkhead — clutches  that  instru- 
ment with  a  desperate  grasp,  that  will  not  relax  until  he 
lands  at  Calais.  Is  there  any  analogy,  in  certain  consti- 
tutions, between  keeping  an  umbrella  up  and  keeping 
the  spirits  up  ?  A  hawser  thrown  on  board  with  a  flop 
replies,  ''Stand  by!"  ''Stand  by,  below.''  **Half  a 
turn  ahead  1 "  '  Half  a  turn  ahead  ! "  Half  speed  ! " 
"Half  speed  I"  Port !  "  "Port  I"  "  Steady  1" 
"  Steady  I  "    "  Go  on  I "    "  Go  on  i  " 

A  stout  wooden  wedge  driven  in  at  my  right  temple 
and  out  at  my  left,  a  floating  deposit  of  lukewarm  oil  in 
my  throat,  and  a  compression  of  the  bridge  of  my  nose 
in  a  blunt  pair  of  pincers, — these  are  the  personal  sensa- 
tions by  which  I  know  we  are  off,  and  by  which  I  shall 
continue  to  know  it  until  I  am  on  the  soil  of  France,  My 
symptoms  have  scarcely  established  thems  Ives  comfort- 
ably, when  two  or  three  skating  shadows  that  have  been 
trying  to  walk  o  stand  get  flung  together,  and  other 
two  or  three  shadows  in  tarpaulin  slide  with  them  into 
corners  and  cove  Ihem  up.  Then  the  South  Foreland 
lights  begin  to  hiccup  at  us  in  a  way  that  bodes  no  good. 

It  is  at  about  this  period  that  my  detestation  of  Calais 
knows  no  bounds.  Inwardly,  I  resolve  afresh  that  I 
never  will  forget  that  hated  town.  I  have  done  so  be- 
fore, many  times ;  but  that  is  past.  Let  me  register  a 
vow.  Implacable  animosity  to  Calais  everm —  that  was 
an  awkward  sea  ;  >and  the  funnel  seems  of  my  opinion, 
for  it  gives  a  complaining  roar. 

The  wind  bL  s  stiffly  from  the  Nor'east,  the  sea  runs 
high,  we  ship  a  deal  of  water,  the  night  is  dark  and 
©old,  and  the  shapeless  passengers  lie  about  in  melan- 
choly bundles,  as  if  they  were  sorted  out  for  the  laun- 
dress ;  but  for  my  own  uncommercial  part  I  cannot  pre- 
tend that  I  am  much  inconvenienced  by  any  of  these 
things.  A  general  howling,  whistling,  flopping,  gurgling, 
and  scooping,  I  am  aware  of,  and  a  general  knocking 


THE  UNCOMMbiliCIAI.  TJtAVELLEK. 


448 


about  of  nature  ;  but  tbe  impressions  I  receive  are  veiy 
vague.  In  a  sweet,  faint  temper,  something  like  the 
gmell  of  damaged  oranges,  I  think  I  sliould  feel  languidly 
'^enevolent  if  I  hS-d  time.  I  have  not  time,  because  I  am 
under  a  curious  compulsion  to  occupy  myself  with  the 
Irish  melodies.  Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  sho 
wore/'  is  the  particular  melody  to  which  I  find  my  self 
devoted.  I  sing  it  to  myself  in  the  most  charming 
manner  and  with  the  greatest  expression.  Now  and  then 
I  raise  my  head  (I  am  sitting  on  the  hardest  of  wet  seats, 
in  the  most  uncomfortable  of  wet  attitudes,  but  I  don't 
mind  it),  and  notice  that  I  am  a  whirling  shuttlecock 
between  a  fiery  battledore  of  a  light-house  on  the 
French  coast  and  a  fiery  battledore  of  a  light-house  on 
the  English  coast ;  but  1  don't  notice  it  particularly,  ex- 
cept to  feel  envenomed  in  my  hatred  of  Calais.  Then  I 
go  on  again,  Rich  and  rare  were  the  ge-ems  she-e-e-e 
wore.  And  a  bright  gold  ring  on  her  wa-and  she 
bo-ore.  But  0  her  beauty  was  fa  a-a-a-r  beyond," — I  am 
particularly  proud  of  my  execution  here,  when  I  become 
aware  of  another  awkward  shock  from  the  sea,  and  an- 
other protest  from  the  funnel,  and  a  fellow-creature  at  the 
paddle-box  more  audibly  indisposed  than  I  think  he  need 
be, — Her  sparkling  gems,  or  snow-white  wand,  ButO, 
her  beauty  was  fa-a-a-a-a-r  beyond," — another  awkward 
one  here,  and  the  fellow-creature  with  the  umbrella 
down  and  picked  up — Her  spa-a-rkling  ge-ems,  or  her 
Port  !  port !  steady  I  steady  !  snow-white  fellow-creature 
at  the  paddlebox  very  selfishly  audible,  bump,  roar,  wash, 
white  wand." 

As  my  execution  of  the  Irish  melodies  partakes  of  my 
imperfect  perceptions  of  what  is  going  on  around  me,  so 
what  is  going  on  around  me  becomes  something  else  than 
what  it  is.  The  stokers  open  the  furnace  doors  below 
to  feed  the  fires,  and  I  am  going  again  on  the  box  of  the 
old  Exeter  Telegraph  fast  coach,  and  that  is  the  light  of 
the  forever-extinguished  coach  lamps,  and  the  gleam  on 
the  hatches  and  paddle-boxes  is  their  gleam  on  cottages 
and  hay -stacks,  and  the  monotonous  noise  of  the  engines 
is  the  steady  jingle  of  the  splendid  team.  Anon,  the  in- 
termittent funnel  roar  of  protest  at  every  violent  roll 
becomes  the  regular  blast  of  a  high-pressure  engine,  and 
I  recognize  the  exceedingly  explosive  steamer  in  which  I 
ascended  the  Mississippi  when  the  American  civil  war 
was  not,  and  when  only  its  causes  were.  A  fragment  of 
mast  on  which  the  light  of  a  lantern  falls,  an  end  of 
rope,  and  a  jerking  block  or  so,  become  suggestive  of 
Franconi's  Circus  at  Paris,  where  I  shall  be  this  very 
night  mayhap  (for  it  must  be  morning  now),  and  they 
dance  to  the  self-same  time  and  tune  as  the  trained 
«teed.  Black  Raven.    What  may  be  the  specialty  of 


444  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


these  waves  as  they  come  rushing  on,  I  cannot  de;seit 
the  pressing  demands  made  upon  me  by  the  gems  she 
wore,  to  . inquire  ;  but  they  are  charged  with  something 
about  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  I  think  it  was  in  Yarmouth 
Roads  that  he  first  went  a  seafaring  and  was  near  foun- 
dering (what  a  terrific  sound  that  word  had  for  me  when 
I  was  a  boy  !)  in  his  first  gale  of  wind.  Still,  through  all 
this,  I  must  ask  her  (who  was  she,  I  wonder  !)  for  the 
fiftieth  time,  and  without  ever  stopping.  Does  she  not 
fear  to  stray,  So  lone  and  lovely  through  this  bleak  way, 
And  are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold.  As  not  to  be 
tempted  by  more  fellow-creatures  at  the  paddle-box  or 
gold  ?  Sir  Knight,  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm,  No  son  of 
Erin  will  offer  me  harm,  For  though  they  love  fellow- 
creature  with  umbrella  down  again  and  golden  store.  Sir 
Knight,  they  what  a  tremendous  one  love  honour  and 
virtue  more  ;  For  though  they  love  Stewards  with  a  bull's 
eye  bright,  they'll  trouble  you  for  your  ticket,  sir, — 
rough  passage  to-night ! 

I  freely  admit  it  to  be  a  miserable  piece  of  human 
weakness  and  inconsistency,  but  I  no  sooner  become 
conscious  of  those  last  words  from  the  steward,  than  I 
begin  to  soften  towards  Calais.  Whereas  I  have  been 
vindictively  wishing  that  those  Calais  burghers  who 
came  out  of  their  town  by  a  short  cut  into  the  History  of 
England,  with  those  fatal  ropes  round  their  necks  by 
which  they  have  since  been  towed  into  so  many  cartoons, 
had  all  been  hanged  on  the  spot,  I  now  begin  to  regard 
them  as  highly  respectable  and  virtuous  tradesmen. 
Looking  about  me,  I  see  the  light  of  Cape  Grinez  well 
astern  of  the  boat  on  the  davits  to  leeward^  and  the 
light  of  Calais  Harbour  undeniably  at  its  old  trieks,  but 
still  ahead  and  shining.  Sentiments  of  forgiveness  of 
Calais,  not  to  say  of  attachment  to  Calais,  begin  So 
expand  my  bosom.  I  have  weak  notions  that  1  will  staj 
there  a  day  or  two  on  my  way  back.  A  faded  and 
recumbent  stranger,  pausing  in  a  profound  revery  over 
the  rim  of  a  basin,  asks  me  what  kind  of  place  Calais  is. 
I  tell  him  (Heaven  forgive  me  !)  a  very  agreeable  place 
indeed, — rather  hilly  than  otherwise. 

So  strangely  goes  the  time,  and  on  the  whole,  sOs 
quickly, — though  still  I  seem  to  have  been  on  board  a 
week, — that  I  am  bumped,  rolled,  gurgled,  washed,  and 
pitched  into  Calais  Harbour  before  her  maiden  smile  has 
finally  lighted  her  through  the  Green  Isle,  When  blest 
forever  is  she  who  relied.  On  entering  Calais  at  the  top 
of  the  tide.  For  we  have  not  to  land  to-night  down 
among  those  slimy  timbers,— covered  with  green  hair, 
as  if  it  were  the  mermaids'  favourite  combing-place, — 
where  one  crawls  to  the  surface  of  the  jetty,  like  a 
stranded  shrimp ;  but  we  go  steaming  up  the  harbour  to 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVKLLKK. 


445 


the  Railway  Station  Quay.  And,  as  we  go,  the  sea 
washes  in  and  out  among  piles  and  planks,  with  dead 
heavy  beats  and  in  quite  a  furious  manner  (whereof  we 
are  proud) ;  and  the  lamps  shake  in  the  wind,  and  the 
bells  of  Calais  striking  One  seem  to  send  their  vibrations 
struggling  against  troubled  air,  as  we  have  come  strug- 
gling against  troubled  water.  And  now,  in  the  sudden 
relief  and  wiping  of  faces,  everybody  on  board  seems  to 
have  had  a  prodigious  double- tooth  out,  and  to  be  this 
very  instant  free  of  the  dentist's  hands.  And  now  we 
all  know  for  the  first  time  how  wet  and  cold  we  are,  and 
how  salt  we  are  ;  and  now  I  love  Calais  with  my  heart 
of  hearts ! 

Hotel  Dessin  !  "  (but  in  this  one  case  it  is  not  a  vocal 
cry  ;  it  is  but  a  bright  lustre  in  the  eyes  of  the  cheery 
representative  of  that  best  of  inns.)    *'  Hotel  Meurice  ! 

Hotel  de  France  ! "  Hotel  de  Calais  ! "  The  Royal 
Hotel,  sir,  Angaishe  ouse!'*  You  going  to  Parry, 
sir?"  ''Your  baggage,  registair  froo,  sir?"  Bless  ye, 
my  Touters,  bless  ye,  my  commissionaires,  bless  ye,  my 
hungry-eyed  mysteries  in  caps  of  a  military  form,  who 
are  always  here,  day  or  night,  fair  weatlier  or  foul, 
seeking  inscrutable  jobs  which  I  never  see  you  get  ! 
Bless  ye  my  Custom-House  officers  in  green  and  gray  ; 
permit  me  to  grasp  the  welcome  hands  that  descend  into 
my  travelling-bag,  one  on  each  side,  and  meet  at  the 
bottom  to  give  my  change  of  linen  a  peculiar  shake  up, 
as  if  it  were  a  measure  of  chaff  or  grain  !  I  have 
nothing  to  declare.  Monsieur  le  Dounaier,  except  that 
when  I  cease  to  breathe,  Calais  will  be  found  written  on 
my  heart.  No  article  liable  to  local  duty  have  I  with 
me.  Monsieur  I'Officier  de  TOctroi,  unless  the  overflow- 
ing of  a  breast  devoted  to  your  charming  town  should  be 
in  that  wise  chargeable.  Ah  !  see  at  the  gangway,  by 
the  twinkling  lantern,  my  dearest  brother  and  friend,  he 
once  of  the  Passport  Office,  he  who  collects  the  names  ! 
May  he  be  forever  changeless  in  his  buttoned  black 
surtout,  with  his  note-book  in  his  hand,  and  his  tall 
black  hat  surmounting  his  round,  smiling,  patient  face  \ 
Let  us  Embrace,  my  dearest  brother.  I  am  yours  d  tout 
amais  for  the  whole  of  ever. 

Calais  up  and  doing  at  the  railway  station,  and  Calais 
down  and  dreaming  in  its  bed  ;  Calais  with  something 
of  ''an  ancient  and  fish-like  smell about  it,  and  Calais 
blown  and  sea- washed  pure  ;  Calais  represented  at  the 
Buffet  by  savoury  roast  fowls,  hot  coffee,  cognac,  and 
Bordeaux  ;  and  Calais  represented  everywhere  by  flit- 
ting persons  with  a  monomania  for  changing  money, — 
though  I  never  shall  be  able  to  understand,  in  my  pres- 
ent state  of  existence,  how  they  live  by  it ;  but  I  sup- 
pose I  should  if  I  understood  the  currency  question, — 


446  WOKKH  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


Calais  en  gros,  and  en  detail,  forgive  one  who  has  deeply 
wronged  you.  I  was  not  fully  aware  of  it  on  the  other 
side,  but  I  meant  Dover. 

Ding,  ding  !  To  the  carriages,  gentlemen  the  travel- 
lers. Ascend,  then,  gentlemen  the  travellers,  for  Haze- 
broucke,  Lille,  Douai,  Bruxalles,  Arras,  Amiens,  and 
Paris  I  I,  humble  representative  of  the  uncommercial 
Interest,  ascend  with  the  rest.  The  train  is  light  to- 
night, and  I  share  my  compartment  with  but  two  fellow- 
travellers  ;  one,  a  compatriot  in  an  obsolete  cravat,  who 
thinks  it  a  quite  unaccountable  thing  that  they  don't 
keep  **  London  time  on  a  French  railway,  and  who  is 
made  angry  by  my  modestly  suggesting  the  possibility 
of  Paris  time  being  more  in  tlieir  way  ;  the  other,  a 
young  priest,  with  a  very  small  bird  in  a  very  small 
cage,  who  feeds  the  small  bird  with  a  quill,  and  then  puts 
him  up  in  the  network  above  his  head,  where  he  ad- 
vances twitterinor  to  his  front  wires,  and  seems  to  ad- 
dress me  in  an  electioneering  manner.  The  compatriot 
(who  crossed  in  the  boat,  and  whom  I  judge  to  be  some 
person  of  distinction,  as  he  was  shut  up,  like  a  stately 
species  of  rabbit,  in  a  private  hutch  on  deck)  and  the 
young  priest  (who  joined  us  at  Calais)  are  soon  asleep, 
and  then  the  bird  and  I  have  it  all  to  ourselves, 

A  stormy  night  still  ;  a  night  that  rweeps  the  wiref^ 
of  the  electric  telegraph  with  a  wild  and  fitful  hand  ;  a 
night  so  very  stormy,  with  the  added  storm  of  the  train- 
progress  through  it,  that  when  the  Guard  comes  clam- 
bering round  to  mark  the  tickets  while  ^e  are  at  full 
speed  (a  really  horrible  performance  in  an  express  irain, 
though  he  holds  on  to  the  open  window  by  his  elbows 
in  the  most  deliberate  manner),  he  stands  in  such  a 
whirlwind  that  I  grip  him  fast  by  the  collar  and  feel  it 
next  to  manslaughter  to  let  him  go.  Still,  when  he  is 
gone,  the  small,  small  bird  remains  at  his  front  wires 
feebly  twittering  to  me, — twittering  and  twittering,  un- 
til, leaning  back  in  my  place,  and  looking  at  him  in 
drowsy  fascination,  I  find  that  he  seems  to  jog  my 
memory  as  we  rush  along. 

Uncommercial  travels  (thus  the  small,  small  bird) 
have  lain,  in  their  idle,  tt'iftless  way,  through  all  this 
range  of  swamp  and  dike,  as  through  many  other  odd 
places  ;  and  about  here,  as  you  very  well  know,  are  the 
queer  old  stone  farm-houses,  approached  by  drawbridges, 
and  the  windmills  that  you  get  at  by  boats.  Here  are 
"ihe  lands  where  the  women  hoe  and  dig,  paddling 
iianoewise  from  field  to  field  ;  and  here  are  the  cabarets 
and  other  peasant-houses,  where  the  stone  dove-cotes 
in  the  littered  yards  are  as  strong  as  warders*  towers  in 
old  castles.  Here  are  the  long  uionotonous  miles  of  canal, 
with  the  ^jreat  Dutch-built  barges  garishly  painted,  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLEK. 


447 


the  towing  girls,  Gome times  harnessed  by  the  forehead, 
sometimes  by  the  /girdle  and  the  shoulders,  not  a  pleas- 
ant sight  to  see.  Scattered  through  this  country  am 
mighty  works  of  ^auban,  whom  you  know  about,  and 
regiments  of  gu(  h  corporals  as  you  heard  of  once  upon  a 
time,  and  many  a  blue-cycd  Bobelle.  Through  these 
flat  districts,  in  the  shining  summer  days,  walk  those 
long  grotesque  files  of  young  novices  in  enormous  shovel- 
hats,  whom  you  remember  bl  ickening  the  ground  check- 
ered by  the  avenues  of  leafy  trees.  And  now  that  Haze- 
broucke  slumbers  certain  ^^ilomctres  ahead,  recall  the 
summer  evening  when  your  .^lusty  feet,  strolling  up 
from  the  station,  tended  '  ap-hazard  to  a  Fair  there, 
where  the  oldest  inhabitants  were  circling  round  and 
round  a  barrel -or  an  on  hobby-horses,  with  the  greatest 
gravity,  and  where  th^  principal  show  in  the  Fair  was  a 
Religious  Richardson's — literally,  on  its  own  announce- 
ment in  great  letters,  Theatre  Religieux.  In  which 
improving  Temple  the  dramatic  representation  was  of 
**  all  the  interesting  events  in  the  life  of  our  Lord,  from 
the  Manger  to  the  Tomb  "  ;  the  principal  female  char- 
acter, without  any  reservation  or  exception,  being  at  the 
moment  of  your  arrival  engaged  in  trimming  the  eternal 
Moderators  (as  it  was  growing  dusk),  while  the  next 
principal  female  character  took  the  money,  and  the 
Young  Saint  John  disported  himself  upside  down  on  the 
platform. 

Looking  up  at  this  point  to  confirm  the  small,  small 
bird  in  every  particular  he  has  mentioned,  I  find  he  has 
ceased  to  twitter,  and  has  put  his  head  under  the  wing. 
Therefore,  in  my  different  way,  I  follow  the  good  exuin- 
pie. 


xvin. 

S(me  jRecollectiojis  of  Morfaliiy, 

I  HAD  parted  from  the  small  bird  at  somewhere  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  he  had  got  out  at  Ar- 
ras, and  had  been  received  by  two  shovel-hats  in  waiting 
at  the  station,  who  presented  an  appropriately  ornitho- 
logical and  crow-like  appearance.  My  compatriot  and  I 
had  gone  on  to  Paris  ;  my  compatriot  enlightened  me 
occasionally  with  a  long  list  of  the  enormous  grievances 
of  French  railway  travelling, — every  one  of  which,  as  I 
dm  a  sinner,  was  perfectly  new  to  me,  though  I  have  as 
much  experience  of  French  railways  as  most  uncommer- 
cials.  I  had  left  him  at  the  terminus  (through  his  con- 
viction, against  all  explanation  and  remonstrance,  that 
bis  baggage-ticket  was  his  passenger- ticket)  insisting,  in 


448 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


a  very  high  temper,  to  the  functionary  on  duty,  that  in 
his  own  personal  identity  he  was  four  packages  weigh- 
ing so  many  l?ilogrammes, — as  if  he  had  been  Cassim 
Baba  I  I  had  bathed  and  breakfasted,  and  was  strolling 
on  the  bright  quays.  The  subject  of  my  meditations 
was  the  question  whether  it  is  positively  in  the  essence 
and  nature  of  things,  as  a  certain  school  of  Britons  would 
seem  to  think  it,  that  a  Capital  must  be  ensnared  and 
enslaved  before  it  can  be  made  beautiful, — when  I  lifted 
up  my  eyes,  and  found  that  my  feet,  straying  like  my 
mind,  had  brought  me  to  Notre  Dame. 

That  is  to  say,  Notre  Dame  was  before  me,  but  there 
was  a  large  open  space  between  us.  A  very  little  while 
gone,  I  had  left  that  space  covered  with  buildings  dense- 
ly crov/ded  ;  and  now  it  was  cleared  for  some  new  won- 
der in  the  way  of  public  Street,  Place,  Garden,  Fountain, 
or  all  four.  Only  the  obscene  little  Morgue,  slinking  on 
the  brink  of  the  river,  and  so  n  to  come  down,  was  left 
there,  looking  mortally  ashamed  of  itself,  and  supremely 
wicked.  I  had  but  glanced  at  this  old  acquaintance, 
when  I  beheld  an  airy  procession  coming  round  in  front 
of  Notre  Dame,  past  the  great  hospital.  It  had  something 
of  a  Masaniello  look,  with  fluttering  striped  curtains  in 
the  midst  of  it,  and  it  came  dancing  round  the  cathedral 
in  the  liveliest  manner. 

I  was  speculating  on  a  marriage  in  Blouse-life,  or  a 
christening,  or  some  other  domestic  festivity  which  I 
would  soe  out,  when  I  found,  from  the  talk  of  a  quick 
rush  of  Blouses  past  me,  that  it  was  a  Body  coming  to 
the  Morgue.  Having  never  before  chanced  upon  this 
initiation,  I  constituted  myself  a  Blouse  likewise,  and 
ran  into  the  Morgue  with  the  rest.  It  was  a  very  muddy 
day,  and  v/e  took  in  a  quantity  of  mire  with  us,  and  the 
procession  coming  in  upon  our  heels  .brought  a  quantity 
more.  The  procession  was  in  the  highest  spirits,  and 
consisted  of  idlers  who  had  come  with  the  curtained  lit- 
ter from  its  starting-place,  and  of  all  the  reinforcements 
it  had  picked  up  by  tho  way.  It  set  the  litter  down  in 
the  midst  of  the  Morgue,  and  then  two  Custodians  pro- 
claimed aloud  that  we  were  all  "invited"  to  go  out. 
This  invitation  was  rendered  the  more  pressing,  if  not 
the  more  flattering,  by  oui  being  shoved  out,  and  the 
folding-gates  being  barred  upon  us. 

Those  who  have  never  seen  the  Morgue  may  see  it 
perfectly  by  presenting  to  themselves  an  indifferently 
paved  coach-house  accessible  from  the  street  by  a  pair 
of  folding-gates  ;  on  the  left  of  the  coach-house,  occupy- 
ing its  width,  any  large  London  tailor's  or  linen-draper's 
plate-glass  window  reaching  to  the  ground  ;  within  the 
window,  on  two  rows  of.  inclined  planes,  what  the  coach- 
house has  to  show  ;  hanging  above,  like  irregular  sta 


THE  UN(JOMMEJiClAL  ^^KAVKJLLEK.  449 


factites  from  the  roof  of  a  cave,  a  quantity  of  clothes,— 
i;he  clothes  of  the  dead  and  buried  shows  of  the  coach- 
house. 

We  had  been  excited  in  the  highest  decree  by  seeing 
the  Custodians  pull  off  their  coats  and  tuck  up  their 
^hirt-sleeves,  as  the  procession  ca'me  along.  It  looked 
60  interestingly  like  business.  Shut  out  in  the  muddy 
otreet,  we  now  became  quite  ravenous  to  know  all  about 
it.  Was  it  river,  pistol,  kniYe,  love,  gambling,  robbery, 
hatred  ?  How  many  stabs,  how  many  bullets,  fresh  or 
decomposed,  suicide  or  murder  ?  All  wedged  together, 
and  all  staring  at  one  another  with  our  heads  thrust  for- 
ward, we  propounded  these  inquiries  and  a  hundred  more 
such.  Imperceptibly  it  came  to  be  known  that  Monsieur 
the  tall  and  sallow  mason  yonder  was  acquainted  with 
•tliG  facts.  Would  Monsieur  the  tall  and  sallow  mason, 
surged  at  by  a  new  wave  of  us,  have  the  goodness  to  im- 
part? It  was  but  a  poor  old  man,  passing  along  the 
street  under  one  of  the  new  buildings,  on  whom  a  stone 
had  fallen,  and  who  had  tumbled  dead.  His  age  ?  An- 
other wave  surged  up  against  the  tall  and  sallow  mason, 
and  our  wave  swept  on  and  broke,  and  be  was  any  age 
from  sixty-five  to  ninety. 

An  old  man  was  not  much  ;  moreover,  we  could  have 
9yrished  he  had  been  killed  by  human  agency, — his  own, 
or  somebody  else's  ;  the  latter  preferable, — but  our 
comfort  was  that  be  had  nothing  about  bim  to  lead  to 
his  identification,  and  that  his  people  must  seek  him 
here.  Perhaps  they  were  waiting  dinner  for  him  even 
now  ?  We  liked  that.  Such  of  us  as  had  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs  took  a  slow,  intense,  protracted  wipe  at  our 
noses  and  then  crammed  our  handkerchiefs  into  the 
breast  of  our  blouses.  Others  of  us  who  had  no  hand- 
kerchiefs administered  a  similar  relief  to  our  overwrought 
minds  by  means  of  prolonged  smears  or  wipes  of  our 
mouths  on  our  sleeves.  One  man,  with  a  gloomy  mal- 
formation of  brow, — a  homicidal  worker  in  white  lead, 
to  judge  from  his  blue  tone  of  colour,  and  a  certain 
flavor  of  paralysis  pervading  him,— got  his  coat-collar 
between  his  teeth,  and  bit  at  it  with  an  appetite.  Several 
decent  women  arrived  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd, 
and  prepared  to  launch  themselves  into  the  dismal  coach- 
house when  opportunity  should  come  ;  among  them,  a 
pretty  young  mother,  pretending  to  bite  the  fore-finger 
of  her  baby-boy,  kept  it  between  her  rosy  lips  that  it 
might  be  handy  for  guiding  to  point  at  the  show.  Mean- 
time, all  faces  were  turned  towards  the  building,  and 
we  men  waited  with  a  fixed  and  stern  resolution, — for 
the  most  part  with  folded  arms.  Surely  it  was  the  only 
public  French  sight  these  uncommercial  eyes  had  seen, 
at  which  the  expectant  people  did  not  form  en  qtceue. 
00  Vol.  18 


450  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


But  there  was  no  such  order  of  arrangement  here  ;  noth- 
ing but  a  general  determination  to  make  a  rush  for  it, 
and  a  disposition  to  object  to  some  boys  who  had  mounted 
on  the  two  stone  posts  by  the  hinges  of  the  gates,  with 
the  design  of  swooping  in  when  the  hinges  should  turn. 

Now  they  turned,  and  we  rushed  I  Great  pressure 
and  a  scream  or  two  from  the  front.  Then  a  laugh  or 
two,  some  expressions  of  disappointment,  and  a  slacken- 
ing of  the  pressure  and  subsidence  of  the  struggle. — Old 
man  not  there. 

**  But  what  w*uld  you  have  ?"  the  Custodian  reasona- 
bly argues,  as  he  Icioks  out  at  his  little  door.  Pa- 
tience, patience  I  We  make  his  toilet,  gentlemen.  He 
will  be  exposed  presently.  It  is  necessary  to  proceed 
according  to  rule.  His  toilet  is  not  made  all  at  a  blow. 
He  will  be  exposed  in  good  time,  gentlemen, — in  good 
time.*'  And  so  retires,  smoking,  with  a  wave  of  his 
sleeveless  arm  towards  the  window,  importing,  "Enter- 
tain yourselves  in  the  meanwhile  with  the  other  curiosi- 
ties.   Fortunately  the  museum  is  not  empty  to-day. 

Who  would  have  thought  of  public  fickleness  even  at 
the  Morgue  ?  But  there  it  was  on  that  occasion.  Three 
lately  popular  articles  that  had  been  attracting  greatly 
when  the  litter  was  first  descried  coming  dancing  round 
the  comer  by  the  great  cathedral  were  so  completely  de- 
posed now,  that  nobody  save  two  little  girls  (one  showing 
them  to  a  doll)  would  look  at  them.  Yet  the  chief  of 
the  three,  the  article  in  the  front  row,  had  received 
jagged  injury  of  the  left  temple  ;  and  the  other  two  in 
the  back  row,  the  drowned  two,  lying  side  by  side  with 
their  heads  very  slightly  turned  toward  each  other, 
seemed  to  be  comparing  notes  about  it.  Indeed,  those 
two  of  the  back  row  were  so  furtive  of  appearance,  and 
so  (in  their  puffed  way)  assassin atingly  knowing  as  to 
the  one  of  the  front,  that  it  was  hard  to  think  the  three 
bad  never  come  together  in  their  lives,  and  were  only 
chance  companions  after  death.  Whether  or  not  this 
was  the  general,  as  it  was  the  uncommercial,  fancy,  it 
is  not  to  be  disputed  that  the  group  had  drawn  exceed- 
ingly within  ten  minutes.  Yet  now  the  inconstant  pub- 
lic turned  its  back  upon  them,  and  even  leaned  its  el 
bows  carelessly  against  the  bar  outside  the  window,  and 
shook  off  the  mud  from  its  shoes,  and  also  lent  and  bor- 
rowed fires  for  pipes. 

Custodian  re-enters  from  his  door  :  **  Again  once,  gen- 
tlemen, you  are  invited — "  no  further  invitation  neces- 
sary. Ready  dash  into  the  street.  Toilet  finished.  Old 
man  coming  out. 

This  time  the  interest  was  grown  too  hot  to  admit  of 
toleration  of  the  boys  on  the  stone  posts.  The  homicidal 
white-lead  worker  made  a  pounce  upon  one  boy  who  was 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  451 


hoisting  himself  up,  and  brought  him  to  earth  amidst 
general  commendation.  Closely  stowed  as  we  were,  we 
yet  formed  into  groups — groups  of  conversation,  with- 
out separation  from  the  mass— to  discuss  the  old  man. 
Rivals  of  the  taW  and  sallow  mason  sprang  into  being, 
and  here  again  was  popular  Inconstancy.  These  rivali 
attracted  audiences,  and  were  greedily  listened  to  ;  and 
whereas  they  had  derived  their  information  solely  from 
Ihe  tall  and  sallow  one,  officious  members  the  of  crowd 
now  sought  to  enlighten  Jiim  on  their  authority.  Chang- 
ed by  this  social  experience  into  an  iron-visaged  and 
inveterate  misanthrope,  the  mason  glared  at  mankind, 
and  evidently  cherished  in  his  breast  the  wish  that  the 
whole  of  the  present  company  could  change  places  with 
the  deceased  old  man.  And  now  listeners  became  inat- 
tentive, and  people  made  a  start  forward  at  a  slight 
sound,  and  an  unholy  fire  kindled  in  the  public  eye,  and 
those  next  the  gates  beat  at  them  impatiently,  as  if  they 
were  of  the  cannibal  species  and  hungry. 

Again  the  hinges  creaked,  and  we  rushed.  Disorderly 
pressure  for  some  time  ensued  before  the  uncommercial 
unit  got  figured  into  the  front  row  of  the  sum.  It  was 
strange  to  see  so  much  heat  and  uproar  seething  about 
one  poor,  spare,  white-haired  old  man,  quiet  for  evermore. 
He  was  calm  of  feature  and  undisfigured,  as  he  lay  on 
his  back, — having  been  struck  upon  the  hinder  part  of 
the  head,  and  thrown  forward  ;  and  something  like  a 
tear  or  two  had  started  from  the  closed  eyes,  and  lay  wet 
upon  the  face.  The  uncommercial  interest,  sated  at  a 
glance,  directed  itself  upon  the  striving  crowd  on  either 
side  and  behind  ;  wondering  whether  one  might  have 
guessed,  from  the  expression  of  those  faces  merely, 
what  kind  of  sight  they  were  looking  at.  The  differences 
of  expression  were  not  many.  There  was  a  little  pity, 
but  not  much,  and  that  mostly  with  a  selfish  touch  in  it, 
^as  would  say,  Shall  I,  poor  I,  look  like  that,  when 
the  time  comes  1 There  was  more  of  a  secretly  brood- 
ing contemplation  and  curiosity,  as,  That  man  I  don't 
like,  and  have  the  grudge  against  ;  would  such  be  his 
appearance,  if  some  one — not  to  mention  names — by  any 
chance  gave  him  an  ugly  knock?"  There  was  a  wolfish 
stare  at  the  object,  in  which  the  homicidal  white-lead 
worker  shone  conspicuous.  And  there  was  a  much  more 
general,  purposeless,  vacant  staring  at  it, — like  looking 
at  waxwork  without  a  catalogue,  and  not  knowing  what 
to  make  of  it.  But  all  these  expressions,  concurred  in 
possessing  the  one  underlying  expression  of  looking  at 
something  that  could  not  return  a  look.  The  uncommer- 
cial notice  had  established  this  as  very  remarkable,  when 
a  new  pressure,  all  at  once  coming  up  the  street,  pin- 
ioned him  ignominiously,  and  hurried  him  into  the  anus 


452  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


(now  sleeved  again)  of  the  Custodian  smoking  at  his 
door,  and  answering  questions  between  puffs,  with  a 
certain  placid,  meritorious  air  of  not  being  proud,  though 
high  in  office.  And  mentioning  pride,  it  may  be  observed, 
by  the  way,  that  one  could  not  well  help  investing  the 
original  sole  occupant  of  the  front  row  with  an  air  depre- 
ciatory of  the  legitimate  attraction  of  the  poor  old  man, 
while  the  two  in  the  second  row  seemed  to  exult  at  his 
superseded  popularity. 

Pacing  presently  round  the  garden  of  the  tower  of  St. 
Jacques  de  la  Boucherie,  and  presently  again  in  front  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  I  called  to  mind  a  certain  desolate, 
open-air  Morgue  that  I  happened  to  light  upon  in  London, 
one  day  in  the  hard  winter  of  1861,  and  which  seemed 
as  strange  to  me,  at  the  time  of  seeing  it,  as  if  I'  had 
found  it  in  China.  Towards  that  hour  of  a  winter's 
afternoon  when  the  lamplighters  are  beginning  to  light 
the  lamps  in  the  streets  a  little  before  they  are  wanted, 
because  the  darkness  thickens  fast  and  soon,  I  was  walk- 
ing in  from  the  country  on  the  northern  side  of  the 
Regent's  Park, — hard-frozen  and  deserted, — when  I  saw 
an  empty  hansom  cab  drive  up  to  the  lodge  at  Gloucester 
Gate,  and  the  driver,  with  great  agitation,  call  to  the 
man  there,  who  quickly  reached  a  long  pole  from  a  tree, 
and  deftly  collared  by  the  driver,  jumped  to  the  step  of 
his  little  seat,  and  so  the  hansom  rattled  out  of  the  gate, 
galloping  over  the  iron-bound  road.  I  followed,  running, 
though  not  so  fast  but  that  when  I  came  to  the  right- 
hand  Canal  Bridge,  near  the  cross-path  to  Chalk  Farm, 
the  hansom  was  stationary,  the  horse  was  smoking  hot, 
the  long  pole  was  idle  on  the  ground,  and  the  driver  and 
the  park-keeper  were  looking  over  the  bridge  parapet. 
Looking  over  too,  I  saw,  lying  on  the  tovv^ing-path,  with 
her  face  turned  up  towards  us,  a  woman,  dead  a  day  or 
two,  and  under  thirty,  as  I  guessed,  poorly  dressed  in 
black.  The  feet  were  lightly  crossed  at  the  ankles,  and 
the  dark  hair,  all  pushed  back  from  the  face,  as  though 
that  had  been  the  last  action  of  her  desperate  hands, 
streamed  over  the  ground.  Dabbled  all  about  her  was  the 
water  and  the  broken  ice  that  had  dropped  from  her  dress, 
and  had  splashed  as  she  was  got  out.  The  policeman 
who  had  j  ust  got  her  out,  and  the  passing  costermonger 
who  had  helped  him,  were  standing  near  the  body  ;  the 
latter,  with  that  stare  at  it  which  I  have  likened  to  being 
at  a  waxwork  exhibition  without  a  catalogue  ;  the  former 
looking  over  -his  stock,  with  professional  stiffness  and 
coolness,  in  the  direction  in  which  the  bearers  he  had 
sent  for  were  expected.  So  dreadfully  forlorn,  so  dread- 
fully sad,  so  dreadfully  mysterious,  this  spectacle  of  our 
dear  sister  here  departed  !  A  barge  came  up  breaking 
the  floating  ice  and  the  silence,  and  a  woman  steered  it; 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  4lu'> 


The  man,  with  the  horse  that  towed  it,  cared  so  little 
for  the  body,  that  the  stumbling  hoofs  had  been  among 
the  hair,  and  the  tow-rope  had  caught  and  turned  the 
head,  before  oar  cry  of  horror  took  him  to  the  bridle. 
At  which  sound  "the  steering  woman  looked  up  at  us  on 
the  bridge  with  contempt  unutterable,  and  then,  looking 
down  at  the  body  with  a  similar  expression, — as  if  it 
were  made  in  another  likeness  from  herself,  had  been 
informed  with  other  passions,  had  been  lost  by  other 
chances,  had  had  another  nature  dragged  down  to  perdi- 
tion, steered  a  spurning  streak  of  mud  at  it,  and  passed 
on. 

A  better  experience,  but  also  of  the  Morgue  kind,  in 
which  chance  happil}^  made  me  useful  in  a  slight  degree, 
arose  to  my  remembrance  as  I  took  my  way  by  the  Boule- 
vard de  Sebastopol  to  the  brighter  scenes  of  Paris. 

The  thing  happened  say  five-and-twenty  years  ago.  I 
was  a  modest  young  uncommercial  then,  and  timid  and 
inexperienced.  Many  suns  and  winds  have  browned  me 
in  the  line,  but  those  were  my  pale  days.  Having 
newly  taken  the  lease  of  a  house  in  a  certain  distin- 
guished metropolitan  parish, — a  house  which  then  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  a  frightfully  first-class  Family  Man- 
sion, involving  awful  responsibilities, — I  became  the 
prey  of  a  Beadle.  I  think  the  Beadle  must  have  seen  me 
going  in  or  coming  out,  and  must  have  observed  that  I  tot 
tered  under  the  weight  of  m.y  grandeur.  Or  he  may 
have  been  in  hiding  under  straw  when  I  bought  my  first 
horse  (in  the  desirable  stable-yard  attached  to  the  first- 
class  Family  Mansion),  and  when  the  vendor  remarked 
to  me,  in  an  original  manner,  on  bringing  him  for  ap- 
proval, taking  his  cloth  off,  and  smacking  him,  "  There, 
sir  !  27iere's  a  Orse  1 "  and  when  I  said  gallantly,  How 
much  do  you  want  for  him  ?  "  and  when  the  vendor  said. 

No  more  than  sixty  guineas  from  you,"  and  when  I 
said  smartly,  ''Why  not  more  than  sixty  from  mef" 
and  when  he  said  crush ingly,  Because  upon  my  soul 
and  body  he'd  be  considered  cheap  at  seventy  by  one 
who  understood  the  subject, — but  you  don't," — I  say, 
the  Beadle  may  have  been  in  hiding  under  straw  when 
this  disgrace  befell  me,  or  he  may  have  noted  that  I  was 
too  raw  and  young  an  Atlas  to  carry  the  first-class  Fam- 
ily Mansion  in  a  knowing  manner.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
the  Beadle  did  what  Melancholy  did  to  the  youth  in 
Gray's  Elegy, -  he  marked  me  for  his  own.  And  the 
way  in  which  the  Beadle  did  it  was  this  :  he  summoned 
me  as  a  juryman  on  his  Coroner's  Inquests. 

In  my  first  feverish  alarm  I  repaired  ''for  safety  and 
for  succour  " — like  those  sagacious  Northern  shepherdc 
who,  having  had  no  previous  reason  whatever  to  believe 
in  young  Nerval,  very  prudently  did  not  originate  the 


454  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


hazardous  idea  of  believing  in  liim — to  a  deep  house- 
holder. This  profound  man  informed  me  that  the  Bea- 
dle counted  on  my  buying  him  off  ;  on  my  bribing  hiir^ 
not  to  summon  me  ;  and  that  if  I  would  attend  an  In? 
quest  with  a  cheerful  countenance,  and  profess  alacrity 
in  that  branch  of  my  country's  service,  the  Beadle  would 
be  disheartened,  and  would  give  up  the  game. 

I  roused  my  energies,  and  the  next  time  the  wily 
Beadle  summoned  me,  I  went.  The  Beadle  was  the 
blankest  Beadle  I  have  ever  looked  on  when  I  answered 
to  my  name  ;  and  his  discomfiture  gave  me  courage  to  go 
through  with  it. 

We  were  impanelled  to  inquire  concerning  the  "death 
of  a  very  little  mite  of  a  child.  It  was  the  old  miserable 
story.  Whether  the  mother  had  committed  the  minor 
offence  of  concealing  the  birth,  or  whether  she  had  com- 
mitted the  major  offence  of  killinfif  the  child,  was  the 
question  on  which  we  were  wanted.  We  must  commit 
her  on  one  of  the  two  issues. 

The  Inquest  came  off  in  the  parish  workhouse,  and  I 
have  yet  a  lively  impression  that  I  was  unanimously  re- 
ceived by  my  brother  Jurymen  as  a  brother  of  the  ut- 
most conceivable  insignificance.  Also  that,  before  we 
began,  a  broker  who  had  lately  cheated  me  fearfully  in 
the  matter  of  a  pair  of  card-tables  was  for  the  utmost 
rigour  of  the  law\  I  remember  that  we  sat  in  a  sort  of 
board-room,  on  such  very  large,  square,  horse-hair  chairs 
that  I  wondered  what  race  of  Patagonians  they  were 
made  for  ;  and  further  that  an  undertaker  gave  me  his 
card,  when  we  were  in  the  full  moral  freshness  of  hav- 
ing just  been  sworn,  as  "an  inhabitant  that  was  newly 
come  into  the  parish,  and  was  likely  to  have  a  young 
family."  The  case  was  then  stated  to  us  by  the  coroner, 
and  then  we  went  down-stairs — led  by  the  plotting 
Beadle — to  view  the  body.  From  that  day  to  this,  the 
poor  little  figure  on  which  that  sounding  legal  appella- 
tion was  bestowed  has  lain  in  the  same  place,  and  with 
the  same  surroundings,  to  my  thinking.  In  a  kind  of 
crypt  devoted  to  the  warehousing  of  the  parochial  cof- 
fins, and  in  the  midst  of  a  perfect  Panorama  of  coffins  of 
all  sizes,  it  was  stretched  on  a  box  ;  the  mother  had  put 
it  in  her  box — this  box — almost  as  soon  as  it  was  born, 
and  it  had  been  presently  found  there.  It  had  been 
opened,  and  neatly  sewn  up,  and,  regarded  from  that 
point  of  view,  it  looked  like  a  stuffed  creature.  It  rested 
on  a  clean  white  cloth,  with  a  surgical  instrument  or  so 
at  hand,  and,  regarded  from  that  point  of  view,  it  looked 
as  if  the  cloth  were  *'laid,"  and  the  Giant  w^ere  coming 
to  dinner.  There  was  nothing  repellant  about  the  poor 
piece  of  innocence,  and  it  demanded  a  mere  form  of  look- 
ing at.    So  we  looked  at  an  old  pauper  who  was  going 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  455 


about  among  the  coffins  with  a  foot-rule,  as  if  he  were  a 
case  of  Self-Measurement  ;  and  we  looked  at  one  an- 
other ;  and  we  said  the  place  was  well  white-washed 
anyhow  ;  and  tfien  our  conversational  powers  as  a  British 
Jury  flagged,  and  the  foreman  said,  All  right,  gentle- 
men ?   Back  again,  Mr.  Beadle  !  " 

The  miserable  young  creature  who  had  given  birth  to 
ihis  child  within  a  very  few  days,  and  who  had  cleaned 
the  cold,  wet  doorsteps  immediately  afterwards,  was 
brought  before  us  when  we  resumed  our  horse-hair 
chairs,  and  was  present  during  the  proceedings.  She 
had  a  horse-hair  chair  herself,  being  very  weak  arid  ill  ; 
and  I  remember  how  she  turned  to  the  unsympathetic 
nurse  who  attended  her,  and  who  might  have  been  the 
figure-head  of  a  pauper-ship,  and  how  she  hid  her  face 
with  sobs  and  tears  upon  that  wooden  shoulder.  I  re- 
member, too,  how  hard  her  mistress  was  upon  her  (she 
was  a  servant  of  all  work),  and  with  what  a  cruel  per- 
tinacity that  piece  of  Virtue  spun  her  thread  of  evidence 
double  by  intertwisting  it  with  the  sternest  thread  of 
construction.  Smitten  hard  by  the  terrible  low  wail 
from  the  utterly  friendless  orphan  girl,  which  never 
ceased  during  the  whole  inquiry,  I  took  heart  to  ask  this 
witness  a  question  or  two,  which  hopefully  admitted  of 
an  answer  that  might  give  a  favourable  turn  to  the  case. 
She  made  the  turn  as  little  favourable  as  it  could  be  ; 
but  it  did  some  good,  and  the  Coroner,  who  was  nobly 
patient  and  humane  (he  was  the  late  Mr.  Wakley),  cast 
a  look  of  strong  encouragement  in  my  direction.  Then 
we  had  the  doctor  who  had  made  the  examination,  and 
the  usual  tests  as  to  whether  the  child  was  born  alive  ; 
but  he  was  a  timid,  muddle-headed  doctor,  and  got  con- 
fused and  contradictory,  and  wouldn't  say  this,  and 
couldn't  answer  for  that,  and  the  immaculate  broker 
was  too  much  for  him,  and  our  side  slid  back  again. 
However,  I  tried  again,  and  the  Coroner  backed  me 
again,  for  which  I  ever  afterwards  felt  grateful  to  him, 
as  I  do  now  to  his  memory  ;  and  we  got  another  favour- 
able turn  out  of  some  other  witness, — some  member  of 
the  family  with  a  strong  prepossession  against  the  sinner  ; 
and  I  think  we  had  the  doctor  back  again  ;  and  I  know 
that  the  Coroner  summed  up  for  our  side,  and  that  I  and 
my  British  brothers  turned  round  to  discuss  our  verdict, 
and  get  ourselves  into  great  difficulties  with  our  large 
chairs  and  the  broker.  At  that  stage  of  the  case  I  tried 
hard  again,  being  convinced  that  I  had  cause  for  it ;  and 
^t  last  we  found  for  the  minor  offence  of  only  concealing 
the  birth  ;  and  the  poor  desolate  creature  who  had  beer 
taken  out  during  our  deliberation,  befng  brought  in 
again  to  be  told  of  the  verdict,  then  dropped  upon  her 
knees  before  us,  with  protestations  that  we  were  right, 


456 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS 


— protestations  among'  the  most  affecting  that  I  have 
ever  heard  in  my  life, — and  was  carried  away  insensible. 

(In  private  conversation  after  this  was  all  over,  the 
Coroner  showed  me  his  reasons,  as  a  trained  surgeon,  for 
perceiving  it  to  be  impossible  that  the  child  could,  under 
the  most  favourable  circumstances,  have  drawn  many 
breaths,  in  the  very  doubtful  case  of  its  having  ever 
breathed  at  all  ;  this  owing  to  the  discovery  of  some 
foreign  matter  in  the  windpipe,  quite  irreconcilable  with 
many  moments  of  life.) 

When  the  agonized  girl  had  made  those  final  protesta- 
tions, I  had  seen  her  face,  and  it  was  in  unison  with  her 
distracted,  heart-broken  voice,  and  it  was  very  moving. 
It  certainly  did  not  impress  me  by  any  beauty  that  it  had, 
and  if  I  ever  see  it  again  in  another  world  I  shall  only 
know  it  by  the  help  of  some  new  sense  o^^  intelligence. 
But  it  came  to  me  in  my  sleep  that  night,  and  I  selfishly 
dismissed  it  in  the  most  efiicient  way  I  could  think  of. 
I  caused  some  extra  care  to  be  taken  of  her  in  the  prison, 
and  counsel  to  be  retained  for  her  defence  when  she  was 
tried  at  the  Old  Bailey  ;  and  her  sentence  was  lenient, 
and  her  history  and  conduct  proved  that  it  was  right.  In 
doing  the  little  I  did  for  her,  I  remember  to  have  had 
the  kind  help  of  some  gentle-hearted  functionary  to 
whom  I  addressed  myself, — but  what  functionary  I  have 
long  forgotten, — who  I  suppose  was  ofiicially  present  at 
the  Inquest. 

I  regard  this  as  a  very  notable  uncommercial  experi- 
ence, because  this  good  came  of  a  Beadle.  And  to  the 
best  of  my  knowledge,  information,  and  belief,  it  is  th^ 
only  good  that  ever  did  come  of  a  Beadle  since  the  first 
Beadle  put  on  his  cocked  hat. 


XIX. 

Birthday  Celebrations. 

It  came  into  my  mind  that  I  would  recall  in  tliese 
notes  a  few  of  the  many  hostelries  I  have  rested  at  in  the 
course  of  my  journeys  ;  and,  indeed,  I  had  taken  up  my 
pen  for  the  purpose,  when  I  was  baffled  by  an  accidental 
circumstance.  It  was  the  having  to  leave  off,  to  wish 
the  owner  of  a  certain  bright  face  that  looked  in  at  my 
door  many  happy  returns  of  the  day."  Thereupon  a 
new  thought  came  into  my  mind,  driving  its  predecessor 
out,  and  I  began  to  recall — instead  of  Inns — the  birth- 
days that  I  have  put  up  at  on  my  way  to  this  present  sheet 
of  paper. 

I  can  very  well  remember  being  taken  out  to  visit  some 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


457 


peach-faced  creature  in  a  blue  sash,  and  shoes  to  corre- 
spond, whose  life  I  supposed  to  consist  entirely  of  birth- 
days. Upon  seed-cake,  sweet  wine,  and  shining  presents, 
that  glorified  yeung  person  seemed  to  me  to  be  exclu- 
sively reared.  At  so  early  a  stage  of  my  travels  did  I 
assist  at  the  anniversary  of  her  nativity  (and  become  en- 
amoured of  her),  that  1  had  not  yet  acquired  the  recon- 
dite knowledge  that  a  birthday  is  the  common  property 
of  all  who  are  born,  but  supposed  it  to  be  a  special  gift 
bestowed  by  the  favouring  Heavens  on  that  one  distin- 
guished infant.  There  was  no  other  company,  and  we 
sat  in  a  shady  bower, — under  a  table,  as  my  better  (or 
worse)  knowledge  leads  me  to  believe, — and  were  regaled 
with  saccharine  substances  and  liquids,  until  it  was  time 
to  part.  A  bitter  powder  was  administered  to  me  next 
morning,  and  I  was  wretched, — on  the  whole,  a  pretty 
accurate  foreshadowing  of  my  more  mature  experiences 
in  such  wise. 

Then  came  the  time  when,  inseparable  from  one's  own 
birthday,  was  a  certain  sense  of  merit,  a  consciousness 
of  well-earned  distinction  ;  when  I  regarded  my  birth- 
day as  a  graceful  achievement  of  my  own,  a  monument 
of  my  perseverance,  independence,  and  good  sense,  re- 
dounding greatly  to  my  honour.  This  was  at  about  the 
period  when  Olympia  Squires  became  involved  in  the 
anniversary.  Olympia  was  most  beautiful  (of  course), 
and  I  loved  her  to  that  degree  that  I  used  to  be  obliged 
to  get  out  of  my  little  bed  in  the  night  expressly  to  ex 
claim  to  Solitude,  Olympia  Squires!"  Visions  of 
Olympia,  clothed  entirely  in  sage-green,  from  which  I 
infer  a  defectively  educated  taste  on  the  part  of  her  re- 
spected parents,  who  were  necessarily  unacquainted 
with  the  South  Kensington  Museum,  still  arise  before 
me.  Truth  is  sacred  ;  and  the  visions  are  crowned  by 
a  shining  white  beaver  bonnet,  impossibly  suggestive  of 
a  little  feminine  post-boy.  My  memory  presents  a  birth- 
day when  Olympia  and  I  were  taken  by  an  unfeeling  rela- 
tive— some  cruel  uncle,  or  the  like — to  a  slow  torture 
called  an  Orrery,  The  terrible  instrument  was  set  up  at 
the  local  Theatre,  and  I  had  expressed  a  profane  wish  in 
the  morning  that  it  was  a  Play  ;  for  which  a  serious 
aunt  had  probed  my  conscience  deep,  and  my  pocket 
deeper,  by  reclaiming  a  bestowed  half-crown.  It  was 
a  venerable  and  a  shabby  Orrery,  at  least  one  thousand 
stars  and  twenty-five  comets  behind  the  age.  Neverthe- 
less, it  was  awful.  When  the  low-spirited  gentleman 
with  the  wand  said,  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  (meaning 
particularly  Olympia  and  me,)  the  lights  are  about  to 
be  put  out,  but  there  is  not  the  slightest  cause  for  alttrm," 
it  was  very  alarming.  Then  the  planets  and  stars  began. 
Sometimes  they   wouldn't  come  on,  sometimes  they 


458 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


wouldn't  go  off,  sometimes  they  had  holes  in  them,  and 
mostly  they  didn't  seem  to  be  good  likenesses.  All  this 
time  the  gentleman  with  the  wand  was  going  on  in 
the  dark  (tapping  away  at  the  Heavenly  bodies  between 
whiles,  like  a  wearisome  woodpecker),  about  a  sphere  re- 
volving on  its  own  axis  eight  hundred  and  ninety -seven 
thousand  millions  of  times — or  miles — in  two  hundred 
and  sixty-three  thousand  five  hundred  and  twenty-four 
millions  of  something  elses,  until  I  thought  if  this  was 
a  birthday  it  were  better  never  to  have  been  born. 
Olympia  also  became  much  depressed  ;  and  we  both 
slumbered  and  woke  cross,  and  still  the  gentleman  was 
going  on  in  the  dark, — whether  up  in  the  stars,  or  down 
on  the  stage,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  make  out,  if  it 
had  been  worth  trying, — ciphering  away  about  planes  of 
orbits,  to  such  an  infamous  extent  that  Olympia,  stung 
to  madness,  actually  kicked  me.  A  pretty  birthday 
spectacle  when  the  lights  were  turned  up  again,  and  all 
the  schools  in  the  town  (including  the  National,  who  had 
come  in  for  nothing,  and  serve  them  right,  for  they 
were  always  throwing  stones)  were  discovered  with  ex- 
hausted  countenances,  screwing  their  knuckles  into 
their  eyes,  or  clutching  their  heads  of  hair.  A  pretty 
birthday  speech  when  Doctor  Sleek  of  the  City-Free 
bobbed  up  his  powdered  head  in  the  stage-box,  and  said 
that  before  this  assembly  dispersed  he  really  must  beg 
to  express  his  entire  approval  of  a  lecture  as  improving, 
as  informing,  as  devoid  of  anything  that  could  call  a 
blush  into  the  cheek  of  youth,  as  any  it  had  ever  been 
his  lot  to  hear  delivered.  A  pretty  birthday  altogether, 
when  Astronomy  couldn't  leave  poor  Small  Olympia 
Squires  and  me  alone,  but  must  put  an  end  to  our  loves  ! 
For  we  never  got  over  it  ;  the  threadbare  Orrery  out- 
wore our  mutual  tenderness  ;  the  man  with  the  wand 
was  too  much  for  the  boy  with  the  bow. 

When  shall  I  disconnect  the  combined  smells  of 
oranges,  brown  paper,  and  straw  from  those  other  birth- 
days at  school,  when  the  coming  hamper  cast  its  shadow 
before,  and  when  a  week  of  social  harmony — shall  I  add 
of  admiring  and  affectionate  popularity  ? — led  up  to  that 
Institution  ?  What  noble  sentiments  were  expressed  to 
me  in  the  days  before  the  hamper,  what  vows  of  friend- 
ship were  sworn  to  me,  what  exceedingly  old  knives 
were  given  me,  what  generous  avowals  of  having  been 
in  the  wrong  emanated  from  else  obstinate  spirits,  once 
enrolled  among  my  enemies  !  The  birthday  of  the  pot- 
ted game  and  guava  jelly  is  still  made  special  to  me  by 
the  noble  conduct  of  Bully  Globson.  Letters  from  home 
had  mysteriously  inquired  whether  I  should  be  much 
surprised  and  disappointed  if  among  the  treasures  in  the 
coming  hamper  I  discovered  potted  game,  and  guava 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


459 


jelly  from  the  Western  Indies.  I  had  mentioned  those 
hints  in  confidence  to  a  few  friends,  and  had  promised 
to  give  away,  qm  I  now  see  reason  to  believe,  a  hand- 
some covey  of  partridges  potted,  and  about  a  hundred- 
weight of  guava  jelly.  It  was  now  that  Globson,  Bully 
no  more,  sought  me  out  in  the  playgroun^.  He  was  a 
big  fat  boy,  with  a  big  fat  head  and  a  big  fat  fist,  and  at 
the  beginning  of  that  Half  had  raised  such  a  bump  on 
my  forehead  that  I  couldn't  get  my  liat  of  state  on  to  go 
to  church.  He  said  that  after  an  interval  of  cool  reflec- 
tion (four  months),  he  now  felt  this  blow  to  have  been 
an  error  of  judgment,  and  that  he  wished  to  apologize 
for  the  same.  Not  only  that,  but,  holding  down  his  big 
head  between  his  two  big  hands  in  order  that  I  might 
reach  it  conveniently,  he  requested  me,  as  an  act  of  jus- 
tice which  would  appease  his  awakened  conscience,  to 
raise  a  retributive  bump  upon  it,  in  the  presence  of  wit- 
nesses. This  handsome  proposal  I  modestly  declined, 
and  he  then  embraced  me,  and  we  walked  away  convers- 
ing. We  conversed  respecting  the  West  India  Islands  ; 
and  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  he  asked  me  with  much 
interest  whether,  in  the  course  of  my  reading,  I  had  met 
with  any  reliable  description  of  the  mode  of  manufac- 
turing guava  jelly  ;  or  whether  I  had  ever  happened  to 
taste  that  conserve,  which  he  had  been  given  to  under- 
stand was  of  rare  excellence. 

Seventeen,  eighteen,  nineteen,  twenty  ;  and  then  with 
the  waning  months  came  an  ever-augmenting  sense  of 
the  dignity  of  twenty-one.  Heaven  knows  I  had  noth- 
ing to  come  into save  the  bare  birthday,  and  yet  I 
esteemed  it  as  a  great  possession.  I  now  and  then  paved 
the  way  to  my  state  of  dignity,  by  beginning  a  proposi- 
tion with  the  casual  words,  Say  that  a  man  of  twenty- 
one,"  or  by  the  incidental  assumption  of  a  fact  that 
could  not  sanely  be  disputed,  as  For  when  a  fellow 
comes  to  be  a  man  of  twenty-one."  I  gave  a  party  on 
the  occasion.  She  was  there.  It  is  unnecessary  to  name 
Her  more  particularly.  She  was  older  than  I,  and  had 
pervaded  every  chink  and  crevice  of  my  mind  for  three 
'or  four  years.  I  had  held  volumes  of  Imaginary  Conver- 
sations with  her  mother  on  the  subject  of  our  union,  and 
I  had  written  letters,  more  in  number  than  Horace  Wal- 
pole's,  to  that  discreet  woman,  soliciting  her  daughter's 
hand  in  marriage.  I  had  never  had  the  remotest  inten- 
sion of  sending  any  of  those  letters  ;  but  to  write  them, 
and  after  a  few  days  tear  them  up,  had  been  a  sublime 
occupation.  Sometimes  I  had  begun,  Honoured  Madam. 
I  think  that  a  lady  gifted  with  those  powers  of  observa- 
tion which  I  know  you  to  possess,  and  endowed  with 
those  womanly  sympathies  with  the  young  and  ardent 
which  it  were  more  than  heresy  to  doubt,  can  scarce!'' 


460 


WOUKiS  OF  UHAIiLES  DICKENS. 


have  failed  to  discover  that  I  love  your  adorable  daugh- 
ter, deeply,  devotedly."  In  less  buoyant  states  of  mind 
I  had  begun,  **Bear  with  me,  Dear  Madam, — bear  with 
a  daring  wretch  who  is  about  to  make  a  surprising  con- 
fession to  you,  wholly  unanticipated  by  yourself,  and 
which  he  besseches  you  to  commit  to  the  flames  as  soon 
as  you  have  become  aware  to  what  a  towering  height  his 
mad  ambition  soars."  At  other  times — periods  of  pro- 
found metal  depression,  when  She  had  gone  out  to  balls 
where  I  was  not — the  draft  took  the  affecting  form  of  a 
paper  to  be  left  on  my  table  after  my  departure  to  the 
confines  of  the  globe.  As  thus  :  "  For  Mrs.  Onowenever, 
these  lines,  when  the  hand  that  traces  them  shall  be  far 
away.  I  could  not  bear  the  daily  torture  of  hopelessly 
loving  the  dear  one  whom  1  will  not  name.  Broiling  on 
the  coast  of  Africa,  or  congealing  on  the  shores  of  Green- 
land, I  am  far,  far  better  there  than  here."  (In  this 
sentiment  my  cooler  judgment  perceives  that  the  family 
of  the  beloved  object  would  have  most  completely  con- 
curred.) ''If  I  ever  emerge  from  obscurity,  and  my 
name  is  ever  heralded  by  Fame,  it  will  be  for  her  dear 
sake.  If  I  ever  amass  Gold,  it  will  be  to  pour  it  at  her 
feet.  Should  I,  on  the  other  hand,  become  the  prey  of 
Ravens — "  I  doubt  if  I  ever  quite  made  up  my  mind 
what  was  to  be  done  in  that  affecting  case  ;  I  tried, 
"  then  it  is  better  so  "  ;  but,  not  feeling  convinced  that 
it  would  be  better  so,  I  vacillated  between  leaving  all 
else  blank,  which  looked  expressive  and  bleak,  or  wind- 
ing up  with,     Farewell  !  " 

This  fictitious  correspondence  of  mine  is  to  blame  for 
the  foregoing  digression.  I  was  about  to  pursue  the 
statement  that  on  my  twenty-first  birthday  I  gave  a 
party,  and  She  was  there.  It  was  a  beautiful  party. 
There  was  not  a  single  animate  or  inanimate  object  con- 
nected with  it  (except  the  company  and  myself)  that  I 
had  ever  seen  before.  Everything  was  hired,  and  the 
mercenaries  in  attendance  were  profound  strangers  to 
me.  Behind  a  door,  in  the  crumby  part  of  the  night, 
when  wineglasses  were  to  be  found  in  unexpected  spots. 
[  spoke  to  Her, — spoke  out  to  Her.  What  passed  I  can- 
riot  as  a  man  of  honour  reveal.  She  was  all  angelical 
gentleness,  but  a  word  was  mentioned — a  short  and 
dreadful  word  of  three  letters,  beginning  with  a  B — 
which,  as  I  remarked  at  the  moment,  ''scorched  my 
brain."  She  went  away  soon  afterwards,  and  when  the 
hollow  throng  (though  to  be  sure  it  was  no  fault  of 
theirs)  dispersed,  I  issued  forth  with  a  dissipated  scor- 
ner,  and,  as  I  mentioned  expressly  to  him,  "  sought  ob- 
livion. "  It  was  found,  with  a  dreadful  headache  in  it, 
but  it  didn't  last ;  for,  in  the  shaming  light  of  next  day's 
noon,  I  raised  my  heavy  head  in  bed,  looking  back  to 


THE  UNCOMMERriAL  TRAVELLER.  461 


the  birthdays  behind  me,  and  tracking  the  circle  by 
which  I  had  got  round,  after  all,  to  the  bitter  powder 
and  the  wretchedness  again. 

This  reactionary  powder  (taken  so  largely  by  the  hu- 
man race  that  I  am  inclined  to  regard  it  as  the  Universal 
Medicine  once  sought  for  in  Laboratories)  is  capable  of 
being  made  up  in  another  form  for  birthday  use.  Any- 
body's long-lost  brother  will  do  ill  to  turn  up  on  a  birth- 
day. If  I  had  a  long-lost  brother,  I  should  know  before- 
iiand  that  he  would  prove  a  tremendous  fraternal  failure 
if  he  appointed  to  rush  into  my  arms  on  my  birthday. 
The  first  Magic  Lantern  I  ever  saw  was  secretly  and 
elaborately  planned  to  be  the  great  effect  of  a  very  ju- 
venile birthday  ;  but  it  wouldn't  act,  and  its  images 
were  dim.  My  experience  of  adult  birthday  Magic 
Lanterns  may  possibly  have  been  unfortunate,  but  has 
certainly  been  similar.  I  have  an  illustrative  birthday 
in  my  eye, — a  birthday  of  my  friend  Flipfield,  whose  birth- 
days had  long  been  remarkable  as  social  successes.  There 
had  been  nothing  set  or  formal  about  them  ;  Flipfield 
having  been  accustomed  merely  to  say,  two  or  three  days 
before,  Don't  forget  to  come  and  dine,  old  boy,  accord- 
ing to  custom  "  ; — I  don't  know  what  he  said  to  the  ladies 
he  invited,  but  I  may  safely  assume  it  not  to  have  been 
"old  girl."  Those  w^ere  delightful  gatherings,  and 
were  enjoyed  by  all  participators.  In  an  evil  hour,  a 
long-lost  brother  of  Flipfield's  came  to  light  in  foreign 
parts.  Where  he  had  been  hidden,  or  what  he  had  been 
doing,  I  don't  know,  but  Flipfield  gravely  informed  me 
that  he  had  turned  up  ''on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges"  ; 
— speaking  of  him  as  if  he  iiad  been  washed  ashore. 
The  long-lost  was  coming  home,  and  Flipfield  made  an 
unfortunate  calculation,  based  on  the  well-known  regu- 
larity of  the  P.  and  O.  Steamers,  that  matters  might  be 
so  contrived  as  that  the  Long-lost  should  appear  in  the 
nick  of  time  on  his  (Flipfield's)  birthday.  Delicacy  com- 
manded that  I  should  repress  the  gloomy  anticipations 
with  which  my  soul  became  fraught  ^vhen  I  heard  of 
this  plan.  The  fatal  day  arrived,  and  we  assembled  in 
force.  Mrs.  Flipfield,  senior,  formed  an  interesting  feat^- 
ure  in  the  group,  with  a  blue- veined  miniature  of  the 
iate  Mr.  Flipfield  round  her  neck,  in  an  oval,  resembling 
a  tart  from  the  pastry-cook's  ;  his  hair  powdered,  and 
the  bright  buttons  on  his  coat  evidently  very  like.  She 
was  accompanied  by  Miss  Flipfield,  the  eldest  of  her  nu- 
merous family,  who  held  her  pocket-handkerchief  to  her 
bosom  in  a  majestic  manner,  and  spoke  to  all  of  us 
(none  of  us  had  ever  seen  her  before)  in  pious  and  con- 
doning tones  of  all  the  quarrels  that  had  taken  place  in 
the  family  from  her  infancy — which  must  have  been  a 
Ion  Of  time  ago— down  to  that  hour.    Th«  L«ng-lost  did 


462  WORKS  OF  CHARLBlS  DICKENS. 


not  appear.  Dinner,  half  an  hour  later  than  usual,  was 
announced,  and  still  no  Long-lost.  We  sat  down  to  ta- 
ble. The  knife  and  fork  of  the  Long-lost  made  a  vacuum 
in  nature,  and  when  the  champagne  came  round  for  the 
first  time,  Flipfield  gave  him  up  for  the  day,  and  had 
them  removed.  It  was  then  that  the  Long-lost  gained 
the  height  of  his  popularity  with  the  company  ;  for  my 
own  part,  I  felt  convinced  that  I  loved  him  dearly.  Flip- 
field's  dinners  are  perfect,  and  he  is  the  easiest  and  best 
of  entertainers.  Dinner  went  on  brilliantly, .  and  the 
more  the  Long-lost  didn't  come,  the  more  comfortable 
we  grew,  and  the  more  highly  we  thought  of  him.  Flip- 
field's  own  man  (who  has  a  regard  for  me)  was  in  the  act 
of  struggling  with  an  ignorant  stipendiary,  to  wrest 
from  him  the  wooden  leg  of  a  Guinea-fowl  which  he 
was  pressing  on  my  acceptance,  and  to  substitute  a  slice 
of  the  breast,  when  a  ringing  at  the  door-bell  suspended 
the  strife.  I  looked  round  me .  and  perceived  the  sudden 
pallor  which  I  knew  iny  own  (risage  revealed  reflected 
in  the  faces  of  the  company.  Flipfield  hurriedly  excused 
himself,  went  out,  was  absent  for  about  a  minute  or 
two,  and  then  re-entered  with  the  Long-lost. 

I  beg  to  say  distinctly  that  if  the  stranger  had  brought 
Mont  Blanc  with  him,  or  had  come  attended  by  a  retinue 
of  eternal  snows,  he  could  not  have  chilled  the  circle  to 
the  marrow  in  a  more  efficient  manner.  Embodied 
Failure  sat  enthroned  upon  the  Long-lost's  brow,  and 
pervaded  him  to  his  Long-lost  boots.  In  vain  Mrs.  Flip- 
field,  senior,  opening  her  arms,  exclaimed,  ''My  Tom  I  " 
and  pressed  his  nose  against  the  counterfeit  presentment 
of  his  other  parent.  In  vain  Miss  Flipfield,  in  the  first 
transports  of  this  reunion,  showed  him  a  dint  upon  her 
maidenly  cheek,  and  asked  him  if  he  remembered  when 
he  did  that  with  the  bellows.  We,  the  by-standers, 
were  overcome,  but  overcome  by  the  palpable,  undis- 
guisable,  utter,  and  total  breakdown  of  the  Long-lost. 
Nothing  he  could  have  done  would  have  set  him  right 
with  us  but  his  instant  return  to  the  Ganges.  In  the  very 
same  moments  it  became  established  that  the  feeling  was 
reciprocal,  and  that  the  Long-lost  detested  us.  When  a 
friend  of  the  family  (not  myself,  upon  my  honour),  wish- 
ing  to  set  things  going  again,  asked  him,  while  he  partook 
of  soup, — asked  him  with  an  amiability  of  intention  be- 
yond all  praise,  but  with  a  weakness  of  execution  open 
to  defeat, — what  kind  of  river  he  considered  the  Ganges, 
the  Long-lost,  scowling  at  the  friend  of  the  family,  over 
his  spoon,  as  one  of  an  abhorrent  race,  replied,  *'  Why, 
a  river  of  water,  I  suppose,"  and  spooned  his  soup  into 
himself  with  a  malignancy  of  hand  and  eye  that  blighted 
the  amiable  questioner.  Not  an  opinion  could  be  elicited 
from  the  Long-lost  in  unison  with  the  sentiments  of  an^ 


THE  tU^COMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  46^3 

individual  present.  He  contradicted  Flipfield  dead,  be- 
fore lie  had  eaten  his  salmon.  He  had  no  idea — or  af- 
fected to  have  no  idea — that  it  was  his  brother's  birth- 
day, and,  on  the  communication  of  that  interesting  fact 
to  him,  merely  wanted  to  make  him  out  four  years  older 
than  he  was.  He  was  an  antipathetical  being,  with  a 
peculiar  power  and  gift  of  treading  on  everybody's  ten- 
derest  place.  They  talk  in  America  of  a  man's  Plat- 
form." I  should  describe  the  Platform  of  the  Long-lost 
as  a  Platform  composed  of  other  people's  corns,  on  which 
he  had  stumped  his  way,  with  all  his  might  and  main, 
to  his  present  position.  It  is  needless  to  add  that  Flip- 
field's  great  birthday  went  by  the  board,  and  that  he  was 
a  wreck  when  I  pretended  at  parting  to  wish  many  happy 
returns  of  it. 

There  is  another  class  of  birthdays  at  which  I  have  so 
frequently  assisted,  that  I  may  assume  such  birthdays 
to  be  pretty  well  known  to  the  human  race.  My  friend 
Mayday's  birthday  is  an  example.  The  guests  have  no 
knowledge  of  one  another  except  on  that  one  day  in  the 
year,  and  are  annually  terrified  for  a  week  by  the  pros- 
pect of  meeting  one  another  again.  There  is  a  fiction 
among  us  that  we  have  uncommon  reasons  for  being 
particularly  lively  and  spirited  on  the  occasion,  whereas 
deep  despondency  is  no  phrase  for  the  expression  of  our 
feelings.  But  the  wonderful  feature  of  the  case  is  that 
we  are  in  tacit  accordance  to  avoid  the  subject, — to  keep 
it  as  far  as  possible,  as  long  as  possible, — and  to  talk 
about  anything  else,  rather  than  the  joyful  event.  I 
may  even  go  so  far  as  to  assert  that  there  is  a  dumb 
compact  among  us  that  we  will  pretend  that  it  is  not 
Mayday's  birthday.  A  mysterious  and  gloomy  Being,  who 
is  said  to  have  gone  to  school  with  Mayday,  and  who  is  so 
lank  and  lean  that  he  seriously  impugns  the' Dietary  of 
the  establishment  at  which  they  were  jointly  educated, 
always  leads  us,  as  I  may  say,  to  the  block,  by  laying 
his  grisly  hand  on  a  decanter  and  begging  us  to  fill  our 
glasses.  The  devices  and  pretences  that  I  have  seen 
put  in  practice  to  defer  the  fatal  moment,  and  to  inter- 
pose between  this  man  and  his  purpose,  are  innumer 
able.  I  have  known  desperate  guests,  when  they  saw 
the  grisly  hand  approaching  the  decanter,  wildly  to 
begin,  without  any  antecedent  whatsoever,  That  re- 
minds me —  "  and  to  plunge  into  long  stories.  When  at 
last  the  hand  and  the  decanter  come  together,  a  shudder 
—a  palpable,  perceptible  shudder — goes  round  the  table. 
We  receive  the  reminder  that  it  is  Mayday's  birthday  as 
if  it  were  the  anniversary  of  some  profound  disgrace  he 
had  undergone,  and  we  sought  to  comfort  him.  And 
when  we  have  drunk  Mayday's  health,  and  wished  him 


464  WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


many  happy  returns,  we  are  seized  for  some  moments 
with  a  ghastly  blitheness,  an  unnatural  levity,  as  if  we 
were  in  the  first  flushed  reaction  of  having  undergone  a 
surgical  operation. 

Birthdays  of  this  species  have  a  public  as  well  as  a 
private  phase.  My  boyhood's  home,"  Dull  borough, 
presents  a  case  in  point.  An  Immortal  Somebody  was 
wanted  in  Dullborough  to  dimple  for  a  day  the  stagnant 
face  of  the  waters  ;  he  was  rather  wanted  by  Dullbor- 
ough generally,  and  much  wanted  by  the  principal  hotel- 
keeper.  The  County  history  was  looked  up  for  a  locall}' 
Immortal  Somebody,  but  the  registered  Dullborough 
worthies  were  all  Nobodies.  In  this  state  of  things,  it 
is  hardly  necessary  to  record  that  Dullborough  did  what 
every  man  does  when  he  wants  to  write  a  book  or  deliver 
a  lecture,  and  is  provided  with  all  the  materials  except 
a  subject.    It  fell  back  upon  Shakespeare. 

No  sooner  was  it  resolved  to  celebrate  Shakespeare's 
birthday  in  Dullborough,  than  the  popularity  of  the 
Immortal  bard  .became  surprising.  You  might  have 
supposed  the  first  edition  of  his  works  to  have  been  pub- 
lished last  week,  and  enthusiastic  Dullborough  to  have 
got  half  through  them.  (I  doubt,  by  the  way,  whether 
it  had  ever  done  half  that ;  but  this  a  private  opinion.) 
A  young  gentleman  with  a  sonnet,  the  retention  of  which 
for  two  years  had  enfeebled  his  mind  and  undermined 
his  knees,  got  the  sonnet  into  the  Dullborough  Warden, 
and  gained  flesh.  Portraits  of  Shakespeare  broke  out  in 
the  bookshop  windows,  and  our  principal  artist  painted 
a  large,  original  portrait  in  oils  for  the  decoration  of  the 
dining-room.  It  was  not  in  the  least  like  any  of  the 
other  portraits,  and  was  exceedingly  admired,  the  head 
being  much  swollen.  At  the  Institution,  the  Debating 
Society  discussed  the  new  question.  Was  there  sufficient 
ground  for  supposing  that  the  Immortal  Shakespeare  ever 
stole  deer?  This  was  indignantly  decided,  by  an  over- 
whelming majority,  in  the  negative  ;  indeed,  there  was 
but  one  vote  on  the  Poaching  side,  and  that  was  the  vote 
of  the  orator  who  had  undertaken  to  advocate  it,  and  who 
became  quite  an  obnoxious  character, — particularly  to 
the  Dullborough  ''roughs,"  who  were  about  as  well-in- 
formed  on  the  matter  as  most  other  people.  Distin- 
guished speakers  were  invited  down,  and  very  nearly 
came  (but  not  quite).  Subscriptions  were  opened,  and 
committees  sat ;  and  it  would  have  been  far  from  a  pop- 
ular measure,  in  the  height  of  the  excitement,  to  have 
told  Dullborough  that  it  wasn't  Stratford-upon-Avon. 
Yet  after  all  these  preparations,  when  the  great  festivity 
took  place,  and  the  portrait,  elevated  aloft,  surveyed  the 
company  as  if  it  were  in  danger  of  springing  a  mine  of 
intellect  and  blowing  itself  up,  it  did  undoubtedly  hap- 


THE  l'NC;OM:.ll^:KClAi.  tkaveller. 


465 


pen,  according  to  the  Inscrutable  mysteries  of  tilings, 
that  nobody  could  be  induced,  not  to  say  to  touch  upon 
Shakespeare,  but  to  come  within  a  mile  of  him,  until 
the  crack  speaker  of  Dullborough  rose  to  propose  the 
immortal  memory,  which  he  did  with  the  perplexing 
and  astonishing  result  that  before  he  had  repeated  the 
great  name  half  a  dozen  times,  or  had  been  upon  his 
legs  as  many  minutes,  he  was  assailed  with  a  genersi/l 
shout  of,  Question." 


XX. 

Bound  for  the  Great  Salt  Lake. 

Behold  me  on  my  way  to  an  Emigrant  Ship,  on  a  hot 
morning  early  in  June.  My  road  lies  through  that  part 
of  London  generally  known  to  the  initiated  as  *'Down 
by  the  Docks."  Down  by  the  Docks  is  Home  to  a  good 
many  people, — to  too  many,  if  I  may  judge  from  the 
overflow  of  local  population  in  the  streets, — but  my  nose 
insinuates  that  the  number  to  whom  it  is  Sweet  Home 
might  be  easily  counted.  Down  by  the  Docks  is  a  region 
I  would  choose  as  my  point  of  embarkation  aboard  ship 
if  I  were  an  emigrant.  It  would  present  my  intention  to 
me  in  such  a  sensible  light ;  it  would  show  me  so  many 
things  to  be  run  away  from. 

Down  by  the  Docks,  they  eat  the  largest  oysters  and 
scatter  the  roughest  oyster-shells  known  to  the  descend- 
ants of  Saint  George  and  the  Dragon.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  they  consume  the  slimiest  of  shell-fish,  which 
seem  to-  have  been  scraped  off  the  copper  bottoms  of 
ships.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  vegetables  at  green 
grocers'  doors  acquire  a  saline  and  a  scaly  look,  as  if  they 
had  been  crossed  with  fish  and  sea- weed.  Dovm  by  the 
Docks,  they  board  seamen  "  at  the  eating-houses,  the 
public-houses,  the  slop-shops,  the  coffee-shops,  the  tally 
shops,  all  kinds  of  shops,  mentionable  and  unmention- 
able, — board  them,  as  it  were,  in  the  piratical  sense, 
making  them  bleed  terribly,  and  giving  no  quartero 
Down  by  the  Docks,  the  seamen  roam  in  midstreet  and 
midday,  their  pockets  inside-out,  and  their  heads  no 
better.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  daughters  of  wave- 
ruling  Britannia  also  rode,  clad  in  silken  attire,  with 
uncovered  tresses  streaming  in  the  breeze,  bandanna 
kerchiefs  floating  from  their  shoulders,  and  crinoline  not 
wanting.  Down  by  the  Docks,  you  may  hear  the  Incom- 
parable Joe  Jackson  sing  the  standard  of  England  with  a 
hornpipe,  any  night ;  or  any  day  may  see  at  the  wax- 
work, for  a  penny  and  no  waiting,  him  as  killed  the 
policeman  at  Acton,  and  suffered  for  it.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  you  may  buy  polonies,  saveloys,  and  sausage 


466  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


preparations  various,  if  you  are  not  particular  what  they 
are  made  of  besides  seasoning.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the 
children  of  Israel  creep  into  any  gloomy  cribs  and  entries 
they  can  hire,  and  hang  slops  there, — pewter  watches, 
sou'wester  hats,  waterproof  overalls,  —  firtht  rate 
articleth,  Thjack."  Down  by  the  Docks,  such  dealers, 
exhibiting  on  a  frame  a  complete  nautical  suit  without 
the  refinement  of  a  waxen  visage  in  the  hat,  present  the 
imaginary  wearer  as  drooping  at  the  yard  arm,  with  the 
seafaring  and  earthfaring  troubles  over.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  tiie  placards  in  the  shops  apostrophize  the  cus- 
tomer, knowing  him  familiarly  beforehand,  as,  "  Look 
here.  Jack  !"  Here's  your  sort,  my  lad  !"  "Try  our 
sea-going  mixed,  at  two  and  nine  ! "  *'  The  right  kit  fo* 
the  British  tar!"  **  Ship  ahoy  !"  Splice  the  main^ 
brace,  brother  !  Come,  cheer  up,  my  lads.  We've 
the  best  liquors  here.  And  you'll  find  something  new  In 
our  wonderful  Beer  I"  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  pawn- 
broker lends  money  on  Union-Jack  pocket-handker- 
chiefs, on  watches  with  little  ships  pitching  fore  and 
ait  on  the  dial,  on  telescopes,  nautical  instruments  m 
cases,  and  such  like.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  apothe- 
cary sets  up  in  business  on  the  wretchedest  scale, — 
chiefly  on  lint  and  plaster  for  the  strapping  of  wounds, — 
and  with  no  bright  bottles,  and  with  no  little  drawers. 
Down  by  the  Docks,  the  shabby  undertaker's  shop  will 
bury  you  for  next  to  nothing,  after  the  Malay  or  China- 
man has  stabbed  you  for  nothing  at  all ;  so  you  can 
hardly  hope  to  make  a  cheaper  end.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  anybody  drunk  will  quarrel  with  anybody  drunk 
or  sober,  and  everybody  else  will  have  a  hand  in  it,  and 
on  the  shortest  notice  you  may  revolve  in  a  whirlpool  of 
red  shirts,  shaggy  beards,  wild  heads  of  hair,  bare  tat- 
tooed arms,  Britannia's  daughters,  malice,  mud,  maun- 
dering, and  madness.  Down  by  the  Docks,  scraping 
fiddles  go  in  the  public-houses  all  day  long,  and  shrill 
above  tlieir  din,  and  all  the  din,  rises  the  screeching 
of  innumerable  parrots  brought  from  foreign  parts,  who 
appear  to  be  very  much  astonished  by  what  they  find 
on  these  native  shores  of  ours.  Possibly  the  parrots 
don't  know,  possibly  they  do,  that  Down  by  the  Docks  is 
the  road  to  the  Pacific  Ocean,  with  its  lovely  islands, 
where  the  savage  girls  plait  flowers,  and  the  savage  boys 
carve  cocoa-nut  shells,  and  the  grim  blind  idols  muse  in 
their  shady  groves  to  exactly  the  same  purpose  as  thg 
priests  and  chiefs.  And  possibly  the  parrots  don't  know, 
possibly  they  do,  that  the  noble  savage  is  a  wearisome 
impostor  wherever  he  is,  and  has  five  hundred  thousand 
volumes  of  indifferent  rhyme,  and  no  reason,  to  answer  for. 

Shadwell  church  !  Pleasant  whispers  of  there  being  a 
fresher  air  down  the  river  than  down  by  the  Docks  go 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  467 


pursuing  one  another,  playfully,  in  and  out  of  the  open- 
ings in  its  spire.  Gip^antic  in  the  basin  just  beyond  the 
church  looms  my  Emigrant  Ship,  her  name  the  Amazon. 
Her  figure-head  is  not  dis^gnred,  as  those  beauteous 
founders  of  the  race  of  strong-minded  women  are  fabled 
to  have  been,  for  the  convenience  of  drawing  the  bow; 
but  I  sympathize  with  the  carver  : — 

"  A  flattering  carver,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  carve  busts  as  they  ought  to  be,— not  as  they  were.*"' 

My  Emigrant  Ship  lies  broadside-on  to  the  wharf.  Tw<^ 
great  gangways  made  of  spars  and  planks  connect  hei 
with  the  wharf  ;  and  up  and  down  these  gangways,  per 
petually  crowding  to  and  fro  and  in  and  out,  like  ants, 
are  the  Emigrants  who  are  going  to  sail  in  my  Emigrant 
Ship.  Some  with  cabbages,  some  with  loaves  of  bread, 
some  with  cheese  and  butter,  some  with  milk  and  beer, 
some  with  boxes,  beds,  and  bundles,  some  with  babies, 
— nearly  all  with  children, — nearly  all  with  brand-new 
tin  cans  for  their  daily  allowance  of  water,  uncomforta- 
bly suggestive  of  a  tin  flavour  in  the  drink.  To  and  fro, 
up  and  down,  abroad  and  ashore,  swarming  here  and 
there  and  everywhere,  my  Emigrants.  And  still  as  the 
Dock  Gate  swings  upon  its  hinges,  cabs  appear,  and  carts 
appear,  and  vans  appear,  bringing  more  of  my  Emigrants, 
with  more  cabbages,  more  loaves,  more  cheese  and  butter, 
more  milk  and  beer,  more  boxes,  beds,  and  bundles,  more 
tin  cans,  and  on  those  shipping  investments  accumulated 
compound  interest  of  children. 

I  go  aboard  my  Emigrant  Ship.  I  go  first  to  the  great 
cabin,  and  find  it  in  the  usual  condition  of  a  cabin  at 
that  pass.  Perspiring  landsmen,  with  loose  papers,  and 
with  pens  and  ink-stands,  pervade  it  ;  and  the  general 
appearance  of  things  is  as  if  the  late  Mr.  Amazon's 
funeral  had  just  come  home  from  the  cemetery,  and  the 
disconsolate  Mrs.  Amazon's  trustees  found  the  affairs  in 
great  disorder,  and  were  looking  high  and  low  for  the 
will.  I  go  out  on  the  poop-deck  for  air,  and,  surveying 
the  emigrants  on  the  deck  below  (indeed  they  are 
crowded  all  about  me,  up  there  too),  find  more  pens  and 
inkstands  in  action,  and  more  papers,  and  interminable 
complication  respecting  accounts  with  individuals  foi 
tin  cans  and  what  not.  But  nobody  is  in  an  ill  temper, 
nobody  is  the  worse  for  drink,  nobody  swears  an  oath  or 
uses  a  coarse  word,  nobody  appears  depressed,  nobody  is 
weeping  ;  and  down  upon  the  deck,  in  every  corner 
where  it  is  possible  to  find  a  few  square  feet  to  kneel, 
crouch,  or  lie  in,  people  in  every  unsuitable  attitude  for 
writing  are  writing  letters. 

Now,  I  have  seen  emigrant  ships  before  this  day  in 
June.    And  these  people  are  so  strikingly  different  from 


468 


VVUKlv;S  Oi^   CJlAKLEy  DU'KENiS, 


all  other  peoi)le  in  like  ci/cumstances  whom  I  have  ever 
seen,  that  I  wonder  aloud,  What  would  a  stranger 
suppose  these  emigrants  to  be  ! " 

The  vigilant  bright  face  of  the  weather-browned  cap- 
tain of  the  Amazon  is  at  my  shoulder,  and  he  says  : 
"  What,  indeed  !  The  most  of  these  came  aboard  yes- 
terday evening.  They  came  from  various  parts  of  Eng- 
land in  small  parties  that  had  never  seen  one  another 
before.  Yet  they  had  not  been  a  couple  of  hours  on 
board  when  they  established  their  own  police,  made 
their  own  regulations,  and  set  their  own  watches  at  all 
the  hatchways.  Before  nine  o'clock  the  ship  was  as  or- 
derly and  as  quiet  as  a  man-of-war. 

I  looked  about  me  again,  and  saw  the  letter- writing 
going  on  with  the  most  curious  composure.  Perfectly 
abstracted  in  Ihe  midst  of  the  crowd  ;  while  great  casks 
were  swinging  aloft,  and  being  lowered  into  the  hold  ; 
while  hot  agents  were  hurrying  up  and  down,  adjusting 
the  interminable  gtccounts  ;  while  two  hundred  strangers 
were  searching  everywhere  for  two  hundred  other 
strangers,  and  were  asking  questions  about  them  of  two 
hundred  more  ;  while  the  children  played  up  and  down 
all  the  steps,  and  in  and  out  among  all  the  people's  legs, 
and  were  beheld,  to  the  general  dismay,  toppling  over  all 
the  dangerous  places, — the  letter-writers  wrote  on  calmly. 
On  the  starboard  side  of  the  ship  a  grizzled  man  dic- 
tated a  long  letter  to  another  grizaled  man  in  an  immense 
fur  cap  ;  which  letter  was  of  so  profound  a  quality, 
that  it  became  necessary  for  the  amanuensis  at  intervals 
to  take  off  his  fur  cap  in  both  his  hands,  for  the  ventila- 
.  tion  of  his  brain,  and  stare  at  him  who  dictated,  as  a 
man  of  many  mysteries  who  was  worth  looking  at.  On 
the  larboard  side  a  woman  had  covered  a  belaying-pin 
with  a  white  cloth,  to  make  a  neat  desk  of  it,  and  was 
sitting  on  a  little  box,  writing  with  the  deliberation  of  a 
book-keeper.  Down  upon  her  breast  on  the  planks  of 
the  deck  at  this  woman's  feet,  with  her  head  divit?g  in 
under  a  beam  of  the  bulwarks  on  that  side,  as  an  eligi- 
ble place  of  refuge  for  her  sheet  of  paper,  a  neat  and 
pretty  girl  wrote  for  a  good  hour  (she  fainted  at  last), 
only  rising  to  the  surface  occasionally  for  a  dip  of  ink 
Alongside  the  boat,  close  to  me  on  the  poop-deck,  an- 
other girl,  a  fresh,  weH-grown  country  girf,  was  writing 
another  letter  on  the  bare  deck.  Later  in  the  day,  when 
this  self -same  boat  was  filled  with  a  choir  who  sang 
glees  and  catches  for  a  long  time,  one  of  the  singers,  a 
girl,  sang  her  part  mechanically  all  the  while,  and  wrote 
a  letter  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  while  doing  so. 

"A  stranger  would  be  puzzled  to  guess  the  right 
name  for  these  people,  Mr.  Uncommercial/'  says  the 
captain. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Indeed  he  would." 
'*If  you  hadn't  known,  could  you  ever  have  sup- 
posed —  ?  " 

"  How  could  I !  I  should  have  said  they  were,  in  their 
degree,  the  pick  and  flower  of  England. " 

"  So  should  I/'  says  the  captain. 

"  How  many  are  they  ? 

"Eight  hundred,  in  round  numbers." 

I  went  between -decks,  where  the  families  with  children 
swarmed  in  the  dark,  where  unavoidable  confusion  had 
been  caused  by  the  last  arrivals,  and  where  the  confusion 
was  increased  by  the  little  preparations  for  dinner  that 
were  going  on  in  each  group.  A  few  v,'omen  here  and 
there  had  got  lost,  and  were  laughing  at  it,  and  asking 
their  way  to  their  own  people,  or  out  on  deck  again.  A 
few  of  the  poor  children  were  crying  ;  but  otherwise  the 
universal  cheerfulness  was  amazing.  ''We  shall  shake 
down  by  to-morrow."  We  shall  come  all  right  in  a  day 
or  so."  We  shall  have  more  light  at  sea."  Such  phrases 
I  heard  everywhere,  as  I  groped  my  way  among  chests 
and  barrels  and  beams  and  unstowed  cargo  and  ring-bolts 
and  Emigrants,  down  to  the  lower  deck,  and  thence  up 
to  the  light  of  day  again  and  to  my  former  station. 

Surely  an  extraordinary  people  in  their  power  of  self- 
abstraction  !  All  the  former  letter- writers  were  still 
writing  calmly,  and  many  more  letter-writers  had  broken 
out  in  my  absence.  A  boy  with  a  bag  of  books  in  his 
hand  and  a  slate  under  his  arm  emerged  from  below, 
concentrated  himself  in  my  neighbourhood  (espying  a 
convenient  skylight  for  his  purpose),  and  went  to  work 
at  a  sum  as  if  he  were  stone  deaf.  A  father  and  mother 
and  several  young  children,  on  the  main  deck  below  me, 
had  formed  a  family  circle  close  to  the  foot  of  the  crowded, 
restless  gangway,  where  the  children  made  a  nest  for 
themselves  in  a  coil  of  rope,  and  the  father  and  mother, 
she  suckling  the  youngest,  discussed  family  affairs  as 
peaceably  as  if  they  were  in  perfect  retirement.  I  think 
the  most  noticeable  characteristic  in  the  eight  hundred 
as  a  mass  was  their  exemption  from  hurry. 

Eight  hundred  what  ?  "  Geese,  villain  ? "  Eight  hun- 
dred Mormons.  I,  Uncommercial  Traveller  for  the  firm 
of  Human  Interest  Brothers,  had  come  aboard  this  Emi- 
grant Ship  to  see  what  Eight  hundred  Latter-Day  Saints 
were  like  ?  and  I  found  them  (to  the  rout  and  overthrow 
of  all  my  expectations)  like  what  I  now  describe  with 
scrupulous  exactness. 

The  Mormon  Agent  who  had  been  active  in  getting 
them  together,  and  in  making  the  contract  with  my 
friends,  the  owners  of  the  ship,  to  take  them  as  far  as 
New  York  on  their  way  to  the  Great  Salt  Lake,  was 
pointed  out  to  me.    A  compact!}^  made,  handsome  man 


470  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  black,  rather  short,  with  rich  browii  hair  and  beard, 
and  clear  bright  eyes.  From  his  speech  I  should  set  him 
down  as  American.  Probably  a  man  who  bad  knocked 
about  the  world*'  pretty  much.  A  man  with  a  frank, 
open  manner,  and  unshrinking  look  ;  withal  a  man  of 
great  quickness.  I  believe  he  was  wholly  ignorant  of 
my  Uncommercial  individuality,  and  consequently  of  my 
immense  Uncommercial  importance. 

Uncommercial.  These  are  a  very  fine  set  of  people 
you  have  brought  together  here. 

Mormon  Agent.  Yes,  sir  ;  they  are  a  mry  fine  set  of 
people. 

Uncommercial  (looking  aboat).  Indeed,  I  think  it 
would  be  difiicult  to  find  Eight  hundred  people  together, 
anywhere  else,  and  find  so  much  beauty  and  so  much 
strength  and  capacity  for  work  among  them. 

Mormon  Agent  (not  looking  about,  but  looking  stead- 
ily at  Uncommercial).  I  think  so.— We  sent  out  about 
a  thousand  more  yes'day  from  Liverpool. 

UNCOMMERCiA.L.  You  are  not  going  with  these  eiPv 
grants  ? 

MoRMOiT  A«Ei«rT.    No,  sir.    I  remain. 
Uncommercial.   Eut  you  have  been  in  the  Mormon 
Territory  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  Yes  ;  I  left  Utah  about  three  years 
ago. 

Uncommercial.  It  is  surprising  to  me  that  these  peo- 
ple are  all  so  cheery,  and  make  so  little  of  the  immense 
distance  before  them. 

Mormon  Agent.  Well,  you  see  ;  many  of  'em  have 
friends  out  at  Utah,  and  many  of  *em  look  forward  to 
meeting  friends  on  the  way. 

Uncommercial.    On  the  way  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  This  way  'tis.  This  ship  lands  'em 
in  New  York  City.  Then  they  go  on  by  rail  right  away 
beyond  St.  Louis,  to  that  part  of  the  Banks  of  the  Mis- 
souri where  they  strike  the  Plains.  There  wagons  from 
the  settlement  meet  'em  to  bear  'em  company  on  their 
journey  'cross, — twelve  hundred  miles,  about.  Indus- 
trious people  who  come  out  to  the  settlement  soon  get 
wagons  of  their  own,  and  so  the  friends  of  some  of  these 
will  come  down  in  their  own  wagons  to  meet  'em.  They 
look  forward  to  that  greatly. 

Uncommercial.  On  their  long  journey  across  the 
Desert,  do  you  arm  them  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  Mostly  you  would  find  they  have 
arms  of  some  kind  or  another  already  with  them.  Such 
as  had  not  arms  we  should  arm  across  the  Plains,  for 
the  general  protection  and  defence. 

Uncommercial.  Will  these  wagons  bring  down  any 
produce  to  the  Missouri  ? 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  471 


Mormon  Agent.  Well,  since  the  war  broke  out, 
we've  taken  to  growing  cotton,  and  they'll  likely  bring 
down  cotton  to  be  exchanged  for  machinery.  We  want 
machinery.  Also  we  have  taken  to  growing  ijidigo, 
which  is  a  fine  commodity  for  profit.  It  has  been  found 
that  the  climate  on  the  farther  side  of  the  Great  Salt 
Lake  suits  well  for  raising  indigo. 

Uncommercial.  I  am  told  that  these  people  now  on 
board  are  principally  from  the  South  of  England  ? 

Mormon  Agent.    And  from  Wales.    That's  true. 

Uncommercial.    Do  you  get  many  Scotch  ? 

Mormon  Agent.    Not  many. 

Uncommercial.    Highlanders,  for  instance. 

Mormon  Agent.  No,  not  Highlanders.  They  ain't 
interested  enough  in  universal  brotherhood  and  peace 
and  good-will. 

Uncommercial.  The  old  fighting  blood  is  strong  in 
them  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  Well,  yes.  And,  besides,  they've 
no  faith. 

Uncommercial  (who  has  been  burning  to  get  at  the 
Prophet  Joe  Smith,  and  seems  to  discover  an  opening). 
Faith  in — ! 

Mormon  Agent  (far  too  many  for  Uncommercial). 
Well. — In  anything  ! 

Similarly  on  this  same  head  the  Uncommercial  under- 
went discomfiture  from  a  Wiltshire  labourer, — a  simple, 
fresh-coloured  farm-labourer,  of  eight-and-thirty,  who 
at  one  time  stood  beside  him  looking  on  at  new  arrivals, 
and  with  whom  he  held  this  dialogue  : — 

Uncommercial.  Would  you  mind  my  asking  you 
what  part  of  the  country  you  come  from  ? 

Wiltshire.  Not  a  bit.  Theer  !  (Exultingly.)  I've 
worked  all  my  life  o'  Salisbury  Plain,  right  under  the 
shadder  o'  Stonehenge.  You  mightn't  think  it,  but  I 
halve. 

Uncommercial.    And  a  pleasant  country  too. 

Wiltshire.    Ah  !   'Tis  a  pleasant  country. 

Uncommercial.    Have  you  any  family  on  board  ? 

Wiltshire.  Two  children, — boy  and  gal.  I  am  a 
widderer,  Jam,  and  I'm  going  out  alonger  my  boy  and 
gal.  That's  my  gal,  and  she's  a  fine  gal  o'  sixteen  (point- 
ing out  the  girl  who  is  writing  by  the  boat).  I'll  go  and 
fetch  my  boy.  I'd  like  to  show  you  my  boy.  (Here 
Wiltshire  disappears,  and  presently  comes  back  with  a 
big  shy  boy  of  twelve,  in  a  superabundance  of  boots, 
who  is  not  at  all  glad  to  be  presented.)  He  is  a  fine 
boy,  too,  and  a  boy  fur  to  work  !  (Boy  having  unduti- 
fully  bolted,  Wiltshire  drops  him.) 

Uncommercial.  It  mus^  cost  you  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  go  so  far,  three  strong 


473 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


WiLTSHniE.  A  power  of  monoy.  Theer  1  Eight 
shillen  a  week,  eight  shillen  a  week,  eight  shillen  a 
week,  put  by  out  of  the  week's  wages  for  ever  so 
long. 

Uncommercial.    I  wonder  how  you  did  it. 

WiLTSHiKE  (recognizing  in  this  a  kindred  spirit).  Se^ 
Theer  now  !  /wonder  how  I  done  it !  But  what  with 
a  bit  o'  subscription  heer,  and  what  with  a  bit  o'  help 
theer,  it  were  done  at  last,  though  I  don't  hardly  know- 
how.  Then  it  were  unfort'net  for  us,  you  see,  as  we 
got  kep*  in  Bristol  so  long — nigh  a  fortnight,  it  were— 
on  accounts  of  a  mistake  wi'  Brother  Halliday.  Swal- 
ler'd  up  money,  it  did,  when  we  might  have  come 
straight  on. 

Uncommercial  (delicately  approaching  Joe  Smith). 
You  are  of  the  Mormon  religion,  of  course. 

Wlltshire  (confidently).  O  yes,  I'm  a  Mormon. 
(Then  reflectively.)  Tm  a  Mormon.  (Then  looking 
round  the  ship,  feigns  to  descry  a  particular  friend  in 
an  empty  spot,  and  evades  the  Uncommercial  for  evef> 
more.) 

After  a  noontide  pause  for  dinner,  during  which  my 
Emigrants  were  nearly  all  between-decks,  and  the  Ama-. 
zon  looked  deserted,  a  general  muster  took  place.  The 
muster  was  for  the  ceremony  of  passing  the  Govern- 
ment Inspector  and  the  Doctor.  Those  authorities  held 
their  temporary  state  amidships  by  a  cask  or  two  ;  and, 
knowing  that  the  whole  Eight  hundred  emigrants  must 
come  face  to  face  with  them,  1  took  my  station  behind 
the  two.  They  knew  nothing  whatever  of  me,  I  be- 
lieve ;  and  my  testimony  to  the  unpretending  gentleness 
and  good-nature  with  which  they  discharged  their  duty 
may  be  of  the  greater  worth.  There  was  not  the  slight- 
est flavour  of  the  Circumlocution  Office  about  their  pro- 
ceedings. 

The  emigrants  were  now  all  on  deck.  They  were 
densely  crowded  aft,  and  swarmed  upon  the  poop  deck 
like  bees.  Two  or  three  Mormon  agents  stood  ready  to 
baud  them  on  to  the  Inspector,  and  to  hand  them  for- 
ward when  they  had  passed.  By  what  successful  means 
a  special  aptitude  for  organization  had  been  infused  into 
these  people,  I  am,  of  course,  unable  to  report.  But  I 
know  that,  even  now,  there  was  no  disorder,  hurry,  or 
difficulty. 

All  being  ready,  the  first  group  are  handed  on.  That 
member  of  the  party  who  is  intrusted  with  the  passen- 
ger ticket  for  the  whole  has  been  warned  by  one  of  the 
agents  to  have  it  ready,  and  here  it  is  in  his  hand.  In 
every  instance  through  the  whole  eight  hundred,  with- 
out an  exception,  this  paper  is  always  ready. 

Inspector  (reading  the  ticket).    Jessie  Jobson,  So 


THE  UNCOiMMEKClAL  TRAVELLER. 

phronia  Jobson,  Jessie  Jobson  again,  Matilda  Jobson, 
William  Jobson,  Jane  Jobson,  Matilda  Jobson  again, 
Brigham  Jobson,  Leonardo  Jobson,  and  OrsoH  Jobson. 
Are  you  all  here  ?  (Glancing  at  tbe  party  over  his  spec- 
tacles.) 

Jessie  Jobson  Number  Two.    All  here,  sir. 

This  group  is  composed  of  an  oJd  grandfather  and 
grandmother,  their  married  son  and  his  wife,  and  their 
family  of  children.  Orson  Jobson  is  a  little  child  asleep 
in  his  mother's  arms.  The  Doctor,  with  a  kind  word  or 
so,  lifts  up  the  corner  of  the  mother's  sLawl,  looks  at  the 
child's  face,  and  touches  the  little  clenched  hand.  If 
we  were  all  as  well  as  Orson  Jobson;  doctoring  would  be 
a  poor  profession. 

Inspector.  Quite  right,  Jessie  Jobson.  Take  your 
ticket,  Jessie,  and  pass  on. 

And  away  they  go.  Mormon  agent,  skilful  and  quiet, 
hands  them  on.  Mormon  agent,  skilful  and  quiet,  hands 
next  party  up. 

Inspector  (reading  ticket  again),  Susannah  Cleverly 
and  William  Cleverly.    Brother  and  sister,  eh  ? 

Sister  (3^oung  woman  of  business,  hustling  slow 
brother).    Yes,  sir. 

Inspector.  Very  good,  Susannah  Cleverly.  Take 
your  ticket,  Susannah,  and  take  care  of  it. 

And  away  they  go. 

Inspector  (taking  ticket  again).  Samson  Dibble  and 
Dorothy  Dibble  (surveying  a  very  old  couple,  over  his 
spectacles,  with  some  surprise).  Your  husband  quite 
blind,  Mrs.  Dibble  ? 

Mrs.  Dibble.    Yes,  sir,  he  be  stone-blind. 

Mr.  Dibble  (addressing  the  mast).  Yes,  sir,  I  be 
stone-blind. 

Inspector.  That's  a  bad  job.  Take  your  ticket,  Mrs, 
Dibble,  and  don't  lose  it,  and  pass  on. 

Doctor  taps  Mr.  Dibble  on  the  eyebrow  with  his  fore- 
linger,  and  away  they  go. 

Inspector  (taking  ticket  again).    Anastatia  Weedle  ? 

Anastatia  (a  pretty  girl  in  a  bright  Garibaldi,  this 
morning  elected  by  universal  suffrage  the  Beauty  of  the 
Ship).    That  is  me,  sir. 

Inspector.    Going  alone,  Anastatia  ? 

Anastatia  (shaking  her  curls).  I  am  with  Mrs.  Job- 
son,  sir,  but  I've  got  separated  for  the  moment. 

Inspector.  Oh  !  You  are  with  the  Jobsons  ?  Quite 
right.    That'll  do.  Miss  Weedle.    Don't  lose  your  ticket. 

Away  she  goes,  and  joins  the  Jobsons  who  are  waiting 
for  her,  and  stoops  and  kisses  Brigham  Jobson, — who 
appears  to  be  considered  too  young  for  the  purpose  by 
several  Mormons  rising  twenty,  who  are  looking  on.  Be- 
fore her  extensive  skirts  have  departed  from  the  casks. 


474 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


a  decent  widow  stands  there  with  four  children,  and  so 
the  roll  goes. 

The  faces  of  some  of  the  Welsh  people,  among  whom 
there  were  many  old  persons,  were  certainly  the  least  in- 
telligent. Some  of  these  emigrants  would  have  bungled 
sorely  but  for  the  directing  hand  that  was  always  ready. 
The  intelligence  here  was  unquestionably  of  a  low  order, 
and  the  heads  were  of  a  poor  type.  Generally  the  case 
was  the  reverse.  There  were  many  worn  faces  bearing 
traces  of  patient  poverty  aud  hard  work,  and  there  was 
great  steadiness  of  purpose  and  much  undemonstrative 
self-respect  among  this  class.  A  few  young  men  were 
going  singly.  Several  young  girls  were  going  two  or 
three  together.  These  latter  I  found  it  very  difl&cult  to 
refer  back,  in  my  mind,  to  their  relinquished  homes  and 
pursuits.  Perhaps  they  were  more  like  country  milli- 
ners, and  pupil  teachers  rather  tawdrily  dressed,  than 
any  other  classes  of  young  women.  I  noticed,  among 
many  little  ornaments  worn,  more  than  one  photograph- 
brooch  of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  and  also  of  the  late 
Prince  Consort.  Some  single  women  of  from  thirty  to 
forty,  whom  one  might  suppose  to  be  embroiderers,  or 
straw-bonnet  makers,  were  obviously  going  out  in  quest 
of  husbands,  as  finer  ladies  go  to  India.  That  they  had 
any  distinct  notion  of  a  plurality  of  husbands  or  wives,  I 
do  not  believe.  To  suppose  the  family  groups  of  whom 
the  majority  of  emigrants  were  composed  polygamically 
possessed  would  be  to  suppose  an  absurdity  manifest  to 
any  one  who  saw  the  fathers  and  mothers. 

I  should  say  (I  had  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  fact) 
that  most  familiar  kinds  of  handicraft  trades  were  rep- 
resented here.  Farm-labourers,  shepherds,  and  the 
like,  had  their  full  share  of  representation,  but  I  doubt 
if  they  preponderated.  It  was  interesting  to  see  how 
the  leading  spirit  in  the  family  circle  never  failed  to  show 
itself,  even  in  the  simple  process  of  answering  to  the 
names  as  they  were  called,  and  checking  olf  the  owners 
of  the  names.  Sometimes  it  was  the  father,  much  of- 
tener  the  mother,  sometimes  a  quick  little  girl,  second 
or  third  in  order  of  seniority.  It  seemed  to  occur  for 
the  first  time  to  some  heavy  fathers,  what  large  families 
they  had  ;  and  their  eyes  rolled  about,  during  the  calling 
of  the  list,  as  if  they  half  misdoubted  some  other  family 
to  have  been  smuggled  into  their  own.  Among  all  the 
fine,  handsome  children,  I  observed  but  two  with  marks 
upon  their  necks  that  were  probably  scrofulous.  Out  of 
the  whole  number  of  emigrants,  but  one  old  woman  was 
temporarily  set  aside  by  the  Doctor,  on  suspicion  of 
fever  ;  but  even  she  afterwards  obtained  a  clean  bill  of 
health. 

Wlion  all  had    passed,"  and  the  afternoon  began  to 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  475 


wear  on,  a  black  box  became  visible  on  deck,  which  box 
was  in  charge  of  certain  personages  also  in  black,  of 
whom  only  one  had  the  conventional  air  of  an  itinerant 
preacher.  This  box  contained  a  supply  of  hymn- 
books,  neatly  printed  and  got  up,  published  at  Liver- 
pool, and  also  in  London  at  tlie  Latter-day  Saints'  Book 
Depot,  30  Florence  Street."  Some  copies  were  hand- 
somely bound  ;  the  plainer  were  the  more  in  request, 
and  many  were  bought.  The  title  ran,  Sacred  Hymns 
and  Spiritual  Songs  for  the  Church  of  Jesus  Christ  of 
Latter-Day  Saints."  The  Preface  dated  Manchester, 
j.840,  ran  thus  :  The  Saints  in  this  country  have  been 
very  desirous  for  a  Hymn-Book  adapted  to  their  faith 
^nd  worship,  that  they  might  sing  the  truth  with  an* 
understanding  heart,  and  express  their  praise,  joy,  and 
gratitude  in  songs  adapted  to  the  New  and  Everlasting 
Covenart.  In  accordance  with  their  wishes,  we  have 
selected  the  following  volume,  which  we  hope  will  prove 
acceptable  until  a  greater  variety  can  be  added.  With 
sentiments  of  high  consideration  and  esteem,  we  sub- 
scribe ourselves  your  brethren  in  the  New  and  Everlast- 
ing Covenant,  Brigham  Young,  Parley  P.  Pratt,  John 
Taylor."  From  this  book — by  no  means  explanatory  to 
myself  of  the  New  and  Everlasting  Covenant,  and  not 
at  all  making  my  heart  an  understanding  one  on  the  sub-^ 
ject  of  that  mystery — a  hymn  was  sung,  which  did  not 
attract  any  great  amount  of  attention,  and  was  supported 
by  a  rather  select  circle.  But  the  choir  in  the  boat  was 
very  popular  and  pleasant  ;  and  there  was  to  have  been 
a  Band,  only  the  Cornet  was  late  in  coming  on  board.  In 
the  course  of  the  afternoon,  a  mother  appeared  from 
shore,  in  search  of  her  daughter,  who  had  run  away 
with  the  Mormons."  She  received  every  assistance  from 
the  Inspector,  but  her  daughter  was  not  found  to  be  on 
board.  The  saints  did  not  seem  to  be  particularly  in 
terested  in  finding  her. 

Towards  five  o'clock  the  galley  became  full  of  tea- 
kettles, and  an  agreeable  fragrance  of  tea  pervaded  the 
ship.  There  was  no  scrambling  or  jostling  for  the  hot 
water,  no  ill-humour,  no  quarrelling.  As  the  Amazon 
was  to  sail  with  the  next  tide,  as  it  would  not  be  high 
water  before  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  left  her  with 
her  tea  in  full  action,  and  her  idle  Steam  Tug  lying  by, 
deputing  steam  and  smoke,  for  the  time  being,  to  the 
Tea-kettles. 

I  afterwards  learned  that  a  Despatch  was  sent  home 
by  the  captain,  before  he  struck  out  into  the  wide  Atlantic, 
highly  extolling  the  behaviour  of  thesev  Emigrants,  and 
the  perfect  order  and  propriety  of  all  their  social  arrange- 
ments. What  is  in  store  for  the  poor  people  on  the 
jshores  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake,  what  haT)py  delusions 


476 


WOICKS  OV  (jHAKr.ES  DICKENS, 


tliey  are  Jabouring  under  now,  on  wliat  miserable  blind* 
ness  their  eyes  may  be  opened  then,  I  do  not  pretend  tc 
say.  But  I  went  on  board  tljeir  ship  to  bear  testimony 
against  them  if  they  deserved  it,  as  I  fully  believed  they 
would  ;  to  my  great  astonishment  they  did  not  deserve 
it  ;  and  my  predispositions  and  tendencies  must  no^ 
affect  mo  as  an  honest  witness.  I  went  over  the  Ama- 
zon's side  feeling  it  impossible  to  deny  that,  so  far- 
some  remarkable  influence  had  produced  a  remarkable 
"esult,  which  better  known  influences  have  often  missed."^ 


XXI. 

T/ie  City  of  the  Absent. 

When  I  think  I  deserve  particularly  well  of  myself, 
and  have  earned  the  right  to  enjoy  a  little  treat,  I  stroll 
from  Covent  Garden  into  the  City  of  London,  after  busi- 
ness hours  there,  on  a  Saturday,  or — better  yet — on  a 
Sunday,  and  roam  about  its  deserted  nooks  and  corners. 
It  is  necessary  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  these  journeys 
that  they  should  be  made  in  summer-time,  for  then  the 
retired  spots  that  I  love  to  haunt  are  at  their  idlest  and 
dullest.  A  gentle  fall  of  rain  is  not  objectionable,  and  a 
warm  mist  sets  off  my  favourite  retreats  to  decided  ad- 
vantage. 

Among  these,  City  Churchyards  hold  a  high  place. 
Such  strange  churchyards  hide  in  the  City  of  London, — 
churchyards  sometimes  so  entirely  detached  from 
churches,  always  so  pressed  upon  by  houses  ;  so  small, 
so  rank,  so  silent,  so  forgotten,  except  by  the  few  people 
who  ever  look  down  into  them  from  their  smoky  win- 
dows. As  I  stand  peeping  in  through  the  iron  gates  and 
rails,  I  can  peel  the  rusty  metal  off  like  bark  from  an  old 
tree.  The  illegible  tombstones  are  all  lop-sided,  the 
grave-mounds  lost  their  shape  in  the  rains  of  a  hundred 


*  After  this  Uncommercial  Journey  was  printed,  I  happened  to 
mention  the  experience  it  describes  to  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes,  M.R 
That  gentleman  then  showed  me  an  article  of  his  Meriting,  in  *'  The 
Edinburgh  Keview  "  for  January/,  1862,  which  is  highly  remarkable 
for  its  philosophical  and  literary  research  concerning  these  Latter-Day 
Saints.  I  find  in  it  the  following  sentences  :  "  The  Select  Committee 
of  the  House  of  Commons  on  emigrant  ships  for  1854  summoned  the 
Mormon  agent  and  passenger-broker  before  it,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  no  ships  under  the  provisions  of  the  'Passengers  Acf 
could  be  depended  upon  for  comfort  and  security  in  the  same  degree 
as  those  under  his  administration.  The  Mormon  ship  is  a  Family 
under  strong  and  accepted  discipline,  with  every  provision  for  com- 
fort,  decorum,  and  internal  peace." 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


477 


years  ago,  the  Lorabardy  Poplar  or  Plane-Tree  that  was 
once  a  dry-salter's  daughter  and  several  common  coun- 
cilmen,  has  withered  like  those  worthies,  and  its  do- 
parted  leaves  are  dust  beneath  it.  Contagion  of  slow 
ruin  overhangs  the  place.  The  discoloured  tiled  roofs  of 
the  environing  buildings  stand  so  awry  that  they  can 
hardly  be  proof  against  any  stress  of  weather.  Old  crazy 
stacks  of  chimneys  seem  to  look  down  as  they  overhang, 
dubiously  calculating  how  far  they  will  have  to  fall.  In 
an  sfngle  of  the  walls,  what  was  once  the  tool -house  of 
the  grave-digger  rots  away,  incrusted  with  toadstools. 
Pipes  and  spouts  for  carrying  off  the  rain  from  the  en- 
compassing gables,  broken  or  feloniously  cut  for  old  lead 
long  ago,  now  let  the  rain  drip  and  splash  as  it  lists 
upon  the  weedy  earth.  Sometimes  there  is  a  rusty  pump 
somewhere  near,  and,  as  I  look  in  at  the  rails  and  medi- 
tate, I  hear  it  working  under  an  unknown  hand  with  a 
creaking  protest,  as  though  the  departed  in  the  church- 
yard urged,  Let  us  lie  here  in  peace  ;  don't  suck  us  up 
and  drink  us  ! " 

One  of  any  best  beloved  churchyards  I  call  the  church- 
yard of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim  ;  touching  what  men  in  gen- 
eral call  it,  I  have  no  information.  It  lies  at  the  heart  of 
the  City,  and  the  Black  wall  Railway  shrieks  at  it  daily. 
It  is  a  small,  small  churchyard,  with  a  ferocious,  strong, 
spiked  iron  gate,  like  a  jail.  This  gate  is  ornamented 
with  skulls  and  cross-bones,  larger  than  the  life, 
wrought  in  stone  ;  but  it  likewise  came  into  the  mind  of 
Saint  Ghastly  Grim,  that  to  stick  iron  spikes  atop  of  the 
stone  skulls,  as  though  they  were  impaled,  would  be  a 
pleasant  device.  Therefore  the  skulls  grin  aloft  horribly, 
thrust  through  and  through  with  iron  spears.  Hence 
there  is  attraction  of  repulsion  for  me  in  Saint  Ghastly 
Grim,  and,  having  often  contemplated  it  in  the  daylight 
and  the  dark,  I  once  felt  drawn  towards  it  in  a  thunder- 
storm at  midnight.      Why  not  ?"  I  said,  in  self-excuse. 

I  have  been  to  see  the  Colosseum  by  the  light  of  the 
moon  ;  is  it  worse  to  go  to  see  Saint  Ghastly  Grim  by 
the  light  of  the  lightning  ?  "  I  repaired  to  the  Saint  in 
a  hackney-cab,  and  found  the  skulls  most  effective,  hav- 
ing the  air  of  a  public  execution,  and  seeming,  as  the 
lightning  flashed,  to  wink  and  grin  with  the  pain  of  the 
spikes.  Having  no  other  person  to  whom  to  impart  my 
satisfaction,  I  communicated  it  to  the  driver.  So  far 
from  being  responsive,  he  surveyed  me — he  was  natu- 
rally a  bottle-nosed,  red-faced  man — with  a  blanched 
countenance.  And  as  he  drove  me  back,  he  ever  and 
again  glanced  in  over  his  shoulder  through  the  littie 
front  window  of  his  carriage,  as  mistrusting  that  I  was  a 
fare  originally  from  a  grave  in  the  churchyard  of  Sainfc 


478 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Ghastly  Grim,  wlio  might  have  flitted  home  agam  with- 
out paying. 

Sometimes  the  queer  Hall  of  some  queer  Company 
gives  upon  a  churchyard  such  as  this  ;  and  when  the 
Livery  dine,  you  may  hear  them  (if  you  are  looking  in 
through  the  iron  rails,  which  you  never  are  when  1  am) 
toasting  their  own  Worshipful  prosperity.  Sometimes  a 
wholesale  house  of  business,  requiring  much  room  for 
stowage,  will  occupy  one  or  two  or  even  all  three  sides 
of  the  enclosing  space,  and  the  backs  of  bales  of  goods 
will  lumber  up  the  windows  as  if  they  were  holding  some 
crowded  trade-meeting  of  themselves  within.  Some- 
times the  commanding  windows  are  all  blank,  and  show 
no  more  sign  of  life  than  the  graves  below, — not  so 
much,  for  they  tell  of  what  once  upon  a  time  was  life  un- 
doubtedly. Such  was  the  surrounding  of  one  City 
churchyard  that  I  saw  last  summer  on  a  Volunteering 
Saturday  evening  towards  eight  of  the  clock,  when  with 
astonishment  I  beheld  an  old,  old  man  and  an  old,  old 
woman  in  it,  making  hay, — yes,  of  all  occupations  in 
this  world,  making  hay  !  It  was  a  very  confined  patch 
of  churchyard  lying  between  Gracechurch  Street  and  the 
Tower,  capable  of  yielding  say  an  apronful  of  hay.  By 
what  means  the  old,  old  man  and  woman  had  got  into  it, 
with  an  almost  toothless  hay-making  rake,  I  could  not 
fathom.  No  opexi  window  was  within  view  ;  no  window 
at  all  was  within  view,  sufficiently  near  the  ground  to 
have  enabled  their  old  legs  to  descend  from  it ;  the  rusty 
churchyard  gate  was  locked,  the  mouldy  church  was 
locked.  Gravely  among  the  graves  they  made  hay  all 
alone  by  themselves.  They  looked  like  Time  and  his  wife. 
There  was  but  tlie  one  rake  between  them,  and  they  both 
had  hold  of  it  in  a  pastorally  loving  manner,  and  there  was 
hay  on  the  old  woman's  black  bonnet,  as  if  the  old  man 
had  recently  been  playful.  The  old  man  was  quite  an 
obsolete  old  man,  in  knee-breeches  and  coarse  grey 
stockings,  and  the  old  woman  wore  mittens  like  unto  his 
stockings  in  texture  and  in  colour.  They  took  no  heed 
of  me  as  I  looked  on  unable  to  account  for  them.  The 
old  woman  was  much  too  bright  for  a  pew-opener,  the 
old  man  much  too  meek  for  a  beadle.  On  an  old  tomb- 
stone in  the  foreground  between  me  and  them  were  two 
cherubim  ;  but  for  those  celestial  embellishments  being 
represented  as  having  no  possible  use  for  knee-br<>eches, 
stockings,  or  mittens,  I  should  have  compared  them 
with  the  haymakers,  and  sought  a  likeness.  I  coughed 
and  awoke  the  echoes  ;  but  the  haymakers  never  looked 
at  me.  They  used  to  rake  with  a  measured  action, 
drawing  the  scanty  crop  towards  them  ;  and  so  I  was 
fain  to  leave  them  under  three  yards  and  a  half  of  dark- 
ening  sky,  gravely  making  hay  among  the  graves,  all 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  479 


alone  hj  tliemselves.  Perhaps  tfiey  were  Spectres,  and 
I  wanted  a  Medium. 

In  another  City  churchyard  of  similar  cramped  dimen- 
sions, I  saw,  that  self-same  summer,  two  comfortable 
charity  children.  They  were  making  love, — tremendous 
proof  of  the  vigour  of  that  immortal  article,  for  they 
were  in  the  graceful  uniform  under  which  English 
Charity  delights  to  hide  herself, — and  they  were  over- 
grown, and  their  legs  (his  legs,  at  least ;  for  I  am  mod. 
Qstly  incompetent  to  speak  of  hers)  were  as  much  in  the 
wrong  as  mere  passive  weakness  of  charity  can  render 
legs.  0,  it  was  a  leaden  churchyard,  but  no  doubt  a 
golden  ground  to  those  young  persons  !  I  first  saw  them 
on  a  Saturday  evening,  and,  perceiving  from  their  occupa- 
tion that  Saturday  evening  was  their  trysting-time,  I 
returned  that  evening  sennight,  and  renewed  the  contem- 
plation of  them.  They  came  there  to  shake  the  bits  of 
matting  which  were  spread  in  the  church  aisles  ;  and 
they  afterwards  rolled  them  up,  he  rollng  his  end,  and 
she  rolling  hers,  until  they  met,  and,  over  the  two  once 
divided  now  united  roles, — sweet  emblem  ! — gave  and 
received  a  chaste  salute.  It  was  so  freshening  to  find 
one  of  my  faded  churchyards  blooming  into  flower  thus, 
that  I  returned  a  second  time,  and  a  third,  and  ultimately 
this  befell  :  They  had  left  the  church  door  open,  in  their 
dusting  and  arranging.  Walking  in  to  look  at  the  church, 
I  became  aware,-  by  the  dim  light,  of  him  in  the  pulpit, 
of  her  in  the  reading  desk,  of  him  looking  down,  of  her 
looking  up,  exchanging  tender  discourse.  Immediately 
both  dived,  and  became  as  it  were  non-existent  on  this 
sphere.  With  an  assumption  of  innocence  I  turned  to 
leave  the  sacred  edifice,  when  an  obese  form  stood  in  the 
portal,  puflaly  demanding  Joseph,  or,  in  default  of  Joseph, 
Celia.  Taking  this  monster  by  the  sleeve,  and  luring 
him  forth  on  pretence  of  showing  him  whom  he  sought, 
I  gave  time  for  the  emergence  of  Joseph  and  Celia,  who 
presently  came  towards  us  in  the  churchyard,  bending 
under  dusty  matting,  a  picture  of  thriving  and  uncon- 
scious industry.  It  would  be  superfluous  to  hint  that  I 
have  ever  since  deemed  this  the  proudest  passage  in  my 
life. 

But  such  instances,  or  any  tokens  of  vitality  are  rare 
indeed  in  my  City  churchyards.  A  few  sparrows  occasion- 
ally try  to  raise  a  lively  chirrup  in  their  solitary  tree, — 
perhaps  as  taking  a  different  view  of  worms  from  that 
entertained  by  humanity,— but  they  are  flat  and  hoarse 
of  voice,  like  the  clerk,  the  organ,  the  bell,  the  clergyman, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  Church-works  when  they  are 
wound  up  for  Sunday.  Caged  larks,  thrushes  or  black- 
birds, hanging  in  neighboring  courts,  pour  forth  their 
strains  passionately,  as  scenting  the  tree,  trying  to  break 


480 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


out,  and  see  leaves  again  before  they  die  ;  t>ut  their  song 
is  Willow,  Willow, — of  a  churchyard  cast.  So  little 
light  lives  inside  the  churches  of  my  churchyards,  when 
the  two  are  coexistent,  that  it  is  often  only  by  an  accident, 
and  after  lon^ acquaintance,  that  I  dLscover  their  having 
stained  glass  in  some  odd  window.  The  west^ing  sun 
slants  into  the  churchyard  by  some  unwonteti  entry,  a 
few  prismatic  tears  drop  on  an  old  tombstone,  and  a  win- 
dow that  I  thought  was  only  dirty  is  for  the  moment  all 
bejewelled.  Then  the  light  passes,  and  the  colours  die. 
Though  even  then,  if  there  be  room  enough  for  me  to  fall 
back  so  far  as  that  I  can  gaze  up  to  the  top  of  the  Church 
Tower,  I  see  the  rusty  vane  new  burnished,  and  seeming 
to  look  out  with  a  joyful  flash  over  the  sea  of  smoke  at 
the  distant  shore  of  country. 

Blinking  old  men  who  are  let  out  of  workhouses  by 
the  hour,  have  a  tendency  to  sit  on  bits  of  coping-stone 
in  these  churchyards,  leaning  with  both  hands  on  their 
sticks,  and  asthmatically  gasping.  The  more  depressed 
class  of  beggars,  too,  bring  hither  broken  meats,  and 
munch.  I  am  on  nodding  terms  with  a  meditative  turn- 
cock who  lingers  in  one  of  them,  and  whom  I  suspect  of 
a  turn  for  poetry  ;  the  rather  as  he  looks  out  of  temper 
when  he  gives  the  fireplug  a  disparaging  v/rench  with 
that  large  tuning-fork  of  his,  which  v/ould  wear  out  the 
shoulder  of  his  coat  but  for  a  precautionary  piece  of  in- 
laid leather.  Fire-ladders,  which  I  am  satisfied  nobody 
knows  anything  about,  and  the  keys  of  which  were  lost 
in  ancient  times,  moulder  away  in  the  larger  church- 
yards, under  eaves  like  wooden  eyebrows ;  and  so  re- 
moved are  those  corners  from  the  haunts  of  men  and 
boys  that  once  on  a  fifth  of  November  I  found  a  " Guy" 
trusted  to  take  care  of  himself  there,  while  his  proprie- 
tors had  gone  to  dinner.  Of  the  expression  of  his  face 
I  cannot  report,  because  it  was  turned  to  the  wall  ;  but 
his  shrugged  shoulders  and  his  ten  extended  fingers  ap- 
peared to  denote  that  he  had  moralized  in  his  little  straw 
chair  on  the  mystery  of  mortality  until  he  gave  it  up  as 
bad  job. 

You  do  noG  come  upon  these  churchyards  violently  ; 
there  are  shades  of  transition  in  the  neighbourhood.  An 
antiquated  news  shop,  or  barber's  shop,  apparently  bereft 
of  customers  in  the  earlier  days  of  George  the  Third, 
would  warn  me  to  look  out  for  one,  if  any  discoveries  in 
this  respect  were  left  for  me  to  make.  A  very  quiet 
court,  in  combination  with  an  unaccountable  dyer's  and 
scourer's,  would  prepare  me  for  a  churchyard.  An  ex- 
ceedingly retiring  public- house,  with  a  bagatelle-bt)ard 
shadily  visible  in  a  sawdusty  parlour  shaped  like  an 
()mnibus,  and  with  a  shelf  of  punch-bowls  in  the  bar, 
would  apprise  me  that  I  stood  near  consecrated  grouudo 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


481 


A  "Dairy,"  exliibiting  in  its  modest  window  one  very 
littla  milk-can  and  three  eggs,  would  suggest  to  me  the 
certainty  of  finding  the  jjoultry  hard  by,  pecking  at  my 
forefathers.  I  first  inferred  the  vicinity  of  Saint  Gliastly 
Grim  from  a  certain  air  of  extra  repose  and  gloom  per- 
vading a  vast  stack  of  warehouses. 

From  the  hush  of  these  y)laces  it  is  congenial  to  pass 
into  the  hushed  resorts  of  business.  Down  the  lanes  I 
like  to  see  the  carts  and  wagons  huddled  together  in 
repose,  the  cranes  idle,  and  the  warehouses  shut.  Pausing 
in  the  alleys  behind  the  closed  Banks  of  miglity  Lombard 
Street,  it  gives  one  as  good  as  a  rich  feeling  to  think  of 
the  broad  counters  with  a  rim  along  the  edge,  made  for 
telling  money  out  on,  the  scales  for  weighing  precious 
metals,  the  ponderous  ledgers,  and,  above  all,  the  bright 
copper  shovels  for  shovelling  gold.  When  I  draw  money, 
it  never  seems  so  much  money  as  when  it  is  shovelled  at 
me  out  of  a  bright  copper  shovel.  I  like  to  say,  In 
gold,"  and  to  see  seven  pounds  musically  pouring  out  of 
the  shovel  like  seventy  ;  the  Bank  appearing  to  remark 
tome, — I  italicize  appearingy — ''If  you  want  more  of 
yellow  earth,  we  keep  it  in  barrows  at  your  service,"  To 
think  of  the  banker's  clerk  with  his  deft  finger  turning 
the  crisp  edges  of  the  Hundred -Pound  Notes  he  has  taken 
in  a  fat  roll  out  of  a  drawer,  is  again  to  hear  the  rust- 
ling of  that  delicious  south-cash  wind.  ''  How  will  you 
have  it?  "  I  once  heard  this  usual  question  asked  at  a 
Bank  Counter  of  an  elderly  female  habited  in  mourning 
and  steeped  in  simplicity,  who  answered,  open-eyed, 
crook-fingered,  laughing  with  expectation,  **  Any- 
how !  '*  Calling  these  things  to  mind  as  I  stroll  among 
the  Banks,  I  wonder  whether  the  other  solitary  man  I 
jpass  has  designs  upon  the  Banks.  For  the  interest  and 
mystery  of  the  matter,  I  almost  hope  he  may  have,  and 
that  his  confederate  may  be  at  this  moment  taking  irni- 
Dressions  of  the  keys  of  the  iron  closets  in  wax.  and  that 
a  delightful  robbery  may  be  in  course  of  transaction. 
About  College  Hill,  Mark  Lane,  and  so  on  towards  the 
Tower,  and  Dock  ward,  the  deserted  wine -merchants' 
cellars  are  fine  subjects  for  consideration  ;  but  the  de- 
serted money-cellars  of  the  Bankers,  and  their  plate-cel- 
lars, and  their  jewel-cellars, — what  subterranean  re- 
gions of  the  Wonderful  Lamp  are  these  !  And  again  : 
possibly  some  shoeless  boy  in  rags  passed  through  this 
street  yesterday,  for  whom  it  is  reserved  to  be  a  Banker 
in  the  fulness  of  time,  and  to  be  surpassing  rich.  Such 
reverses  have  been,  since  the  days  of  Whittington,  and 
were,  long  before.  I  want  to  know  if  the .  boy  has  an}^ 
foreglittering  of  that  glittering  fortune  now,  when  he 
threads  these  stones,  hungry.  Much  as  I  also  want  to 
know  whether  the  next  man  to  be  hanged  »t  Newgate 

PP  VOT..  IS 


482 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


yonder  Tiad  any  suspicion  upon  him  that  he  was  moving 
steadily  towards  that  fate  when  he  talked  so  much  about 
the  last  man  who  paid  the  same  great  debt  at  the  same 
small  Debtor's  Door. 

Where  are  all  the  people  who  on  busy  working-days 
pervade  these  scenes?  The  locomotive  banker's  clerk 
who  carries  a  black  portfolio  chained  to  him  by  a  chain 
of  steel, — where  is  he?  Does  he  go  to  bed  with  his 
chain  on, — to  church  with  his  chain  on, — or  does  he  lay 
it  by  ?  And  if  he  lays  it  by,  what  becomes  of  his  portfolio 
when  he  is  unchained  for  a  holiday  ?  The  waste-paper 
baskets  of  these  closed  counting-houses  would  let  me 
into  many  hints  of  business  matters  if  I  had  the  explora- 
tion of  them  :  and  what  secrets  of  the  heart  should  I 
discover  on  the  "pads  "  of  the  young  clerks, — the  sheets 
of  cartridge-paper  and  blotting-paper  interposed  between 
their  writing  and  their  desks?  Pads  are  taken  into  con- 
fidence on  the  tenderest  occasions  ;  and  oftentimes  when 
I  have  made  a  business  visit,  and  have  sent  in  my  name 
from  the  outer-office,  have  I  had  it  forced  on  my  discur- 
sive notice,  that  the  ofhciating  young  gentleman  has 
over  and  over  again  inscribed  Amelia,  in  ink  of  vs,rious 
dates,  on  corners  of  his  pad.  Indeed,  the  pad  may  be 
regarded  as  the  legitimate  modem  successor  of  the  old 
forest-tree,  whereon  these  young  knights  (having  no  at- 
tainable forest  nearer  than  Epping)  engrave  the  names 
of  their  mistresses.  After  all  it  is  a  more  satisfactory 
process  than  carving,  and  can  be  oftener  repeated.  So 
these  courts  in  their  Sunday  rest  are  courts  of  Love 
Omnipotent  (I  rejoice  to  bethink  myself),  dry  as  they 
look.  And  here  is  Grarraway's,  bolted  and  shuttered 
hard  and  fast  !  It  is  possible  to  imagine  the  man  who 
cuts  the  sandwiches,  on  his  back  in  a  hay  field  ;  it  is  pos- 
sible to  imagine  his  desk,  like  the  desk  of  a  clerk  at 
church,  without  him  ;  but  imagination  is  unable  to  pur- 
sue the  men  who  wait  at  Garra way's  all  the  week  for  the 
men  who  never  come.  When  they  are  forcibly  put  out 
of  Garra  way's  on  Saturday  night, — which  they  must  be, 
for  they  never  would  go  out  of  their  own  accord, — where 
do  they  vanish  until  Monday  morning  ?  On  the  first 
Sunday  that  I  ever  strayed  here,  I  expected  to  find  them 
hovering  about  these  lanes,  like  restless  ghosts,  and 
trying  to  peep  into  Garraway's  through  chinks  in  the  " 
shutters,  if  not  endeavouring  to  turn  the  lock  of  the 
door  with  false  keys,  picks,  and  screw-drivers.  But  the 
wonder  is  that  they  go  clean  away  !  And,  now  I  think 
of  it,  the  wonder  is  that  every  working-day  pervader  of 
these  scenes  goes  clean  away.  The  man  who  sells  the 
dogs'  collars  and  the  little  toy  coal-scuttles  feels  under 
as  great  an  obligation  to  go  afar  off  as  Glyn  and  Co.,  or 
Smith,  Payne,  and  Smith.    There  is  an  old  monastery- 


THE  UNCOMMERCJIAL  TRAVELLER. 


488 


crypt  under  Garraway's  (I  have  been  in  it  among  th^ 
port  wine),  and  perhaps  Garraway's,  taking  pity  on  the 
mouldy  men  who  wait  in  its  public  room  all  their  lives, 
gives  tfcem  cool  house-room  down  there  over  Sundays; 
but  the  catacombs  of  Paris  would  not  be  large  enough 
to  hold  the  rest  of  the  missing.  This  characteristic  of 
London  City  greatly  helps  its  being  the  quaint  place  it  is 
in  the  weekly  pause  of  business,  and  greatly  helps  my 
Sunday  sensation  in  it  of  being  the  Last  Man.  In  my 
solitude,  the  ticket-porters  being  all  gone  with  the  rest, 
I  venture  to  breathe  to  the  quiet  bricks  and  stones  my 
confidential  wonderment  why  a  ticket-porter,  who  never 
does  any  work  with  his  hands,  is  bound  to  wear  a  white 
apron  ;  and  why  a  great  Ecclesiastical  Dignitary,  who 
never  does  any  work  with  his  hands  either,  is  equally 
bound  to  wear  a  black  one. 

XXII. 

An  Old  Stage-  Coaching  Horse. 

Before  the  waitress  had  shut  the  door,  I  had  forgot- 
ten how  many  stage-coaches  she  said  used  to  change 
horses  in  the  town  3very  day.  But  it  was  of  little  mo- 
ment ;  any  high  number  would  do  as  well  as  another. 
It  had  been  a  great  stage  coaching  town  in  the  great 
stage -coaching  times,  and  the  ruthless  railways  had 
killed  and  buried  it. 

The  sign  of  the  house  was  the  Dolphin's  Head.  Why 
only  head,  I  don't  know  ;  for  the  Dol fin's  etfigy  at  full 
length,  and  upside  down, — as  a  Dolphin  is  always  bound  to 
be  when  artistically  treated,  though  I  suppose  he  is  some- 
times right  side  upward  in  his  natural  condition, — graced 
the  sign-board.  The  sign-board  chafed  its  rusty  hooks 
outside  the  bow- window  of  my  room,  and  was  a  shabby 
work.  No  visitor  could  have  denied  that  the  Dolphin 
was  dying  by  inches,  but  he  showed  nc  bright  colours. 
He  had  once  served  another  master ;  there  was  a  newer 
streak  of  paint  below  him,  displaying  with  inconsistent 
freshness  the  legend.  By  J.  Mellows. 

My  door  opened  again,  and  J.  Mellows's  representative 
came  back.  I  had  asked  her  what  I  could  have  for  din- 
ner, and  she  now  returned  with  the  coimter-question, 
what  would  I  like  ?  As  the  Dolphin  stood  possessed  of 
nothing  that  I  do  like,  I  was  fain  to  yield  to  the  sugges- 
tion of  a  duck,  which  I  don't  like.  J.  Mellows's  repre- 
sentative was  a  mournful  young  woman,  with  one  eye 
susceptible  of  guidance^  and  one  uncontrollable  eye ; 
which  latter,  seeming  to  wander  in  quest  of  stage- 
coaches, deepened  the  melancholy  in  which  the  Dolphin 
was  steeped. 


484 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


This  young  woman  bad  but  shut  the  door  on  retiring 
again,  when  I  bethought  me  of  adding  to  my  order  the 
words,  with  nice  vegetables/'  Looking  out  at  the 
dooi  to  give  them  emphatic  utterance,  I  found  her  al- 
ready in  a  state  of  pensive  catalepsy  in  the  deserted  gal- 
lery, picking  her  teeth  with  a  pin. 

At  the  Railway  Station,  seven  miles  off,  I  had  been 
the  subject  of  wonder  when  I  ordered  a  fly  in  which  to 
come  here.  And  when  I  gave  the  direction,  "  To  the 
Dolphin's  Head,"  I  had  observed  an  ominous  stare  on 
the  countenance  of  the  strong  young  man  in  velveteen 
who  was  the  platform  servant  of  the  Company.  He  had 
also  called  to  my  driver  at  parting,  All  ri-ight  !  Don't 
hang  yourself  when  you  get  there,  Geo-orge  !  "  in  a  sar- 
castic tone,  for  which  I  had  entertained  some  transitory 
thoughts  of  reporting  him  to  the  General  Manager. 

I  had  no  business  in  the  town, — I  never  have  any  busi- 
ness in  any  town, — but  I  had  been  caught  by  the  fancy 
that  I  would  come  and  look  at  it  in  it.s  degeneracy.  My 
purpose  was  fitly  inaugurated  by  the  Doli)hin's  Head, 
which  everywhere  expressed  past  coachfulness  and 
present  coachlessness.  Coloured  prints  of  coaches  start- 
ing, arriving,  changing  horses,  coaches  in  the  sunshine, 
coaches  in  the  snow,  coaches  in  the  wind,  coaches  in  the 
mist  and  rain,  coaches  on  the  King's  birthday,  coaches 
in  all  circumstances  compatible  with  their  triumph  and 
victory,  but  never  in  the  act  of  breaking  down  or  over- 
turning, pervaded  the  house.  Of  these  works  of  art, 
some,  framed  and  not  glazed,  had  holes  in  them  ;  the 
garnish  of  others  had  become  so  brown  and  cracked  that 
they  looked  like  overdone  pie-crust  ;  the  designs  of  oth- 
ers were  almost  obliterated  by  the  flies  of  many  summers. 
Broken  glasses,  damaged  fram.es,  lop-sided  hanging,  and 
consignment  of  incurable  cripples  to  places  of  refuge  in 
dark  corners,  attested  the  desolation  of  the  rest.  The 
old  room  on  the  ground  floor,  where  the  passengers  of 
the  Highflyer  used  to  dine,  had  nothing  in  it  but  a 
wretched  show  of  twigs  and  flower-pots  in  the  broad 
window,  to  hide  the  nakedness  of  the  land,  and  in  a  cor- 
ner little  Mellows's  perambulator,  with  even  its  parasol- 
head  turned  despondently  to  the  wall.  The  other  room, 
where  post-horse  company  used  to  wait  while  relays 
were  getting  ready  down  the  yard,  still  held  its  ground, 
but  was  as  airless  as  I  conceive  a  hearse  to  be  ;  insomuch 
that  Mr.  Pitt,  hanging  high  against  the  partition  (with 
^pots  on  him  like  port  wine,  though  it  is  mysterious  how 
port  wine  ever  got  squirted  up  there),  had  good  reason 
for  perking  his  nose  and  -sniffing.  The  stopperless  cruets 
on  the  spindleshanked  sideboard  were  in  a  miserably 
dejected  state,  the  anchovy  sauce  having  turned  blue 
some  years  ago,  and  the  cayenne  pepper  (with  a  scoop  in 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  485 


It  like  a  small  model  of  a  wooden  leg)  Laving  turned 
solid.  The  old  fraudulent  candles,  which  were  always 
being  paid  for  and  never  used,  were  burnt  out  at  last ; 
but  their  tall  stilts  of  candlesticks  still  lingered,  and 
still  outraged  the  human  intellect  by  pretending  to  be 
silver.  The  mouldy  old  unreformed  Borough  Member, 
with  his  right  hand  buttoned  up  in  the  breast  of  his 
coat,  and  his  back  characteristically  turned  on  bales  of 
petitions  from  his  constituents,  was  there  too  ;  and  the 
poker,  which  never  had  been  among  the  fire-irons,  lest 
post-horse  company  should  overstir  the  fire,  was  not 
there,  as  of  old. 

Pursuing  my  researches  in  the  Dolphin's  Head,  I 
found  it  sorely  shrunken.  When  J.  Mellows  came  intc? 
possession,  he  had  walled  off  half  the  bar,  which  was 
now  a  tobacco-shop  with  its  own  entrance  in  the  yard,— 
the  once  glorious  yard  where  the  postboys,  whip  in  hand 
and  Always  buttoning  their  waistcoats  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, used  to  come  running  forth  to  mount  and  away. 
A  ''Scientific  Shoeing- Smith  and  Veterinary  Surgeon " 
had  further  encroached  upon  the  yard  ;  and  a  grimly  sa« 
tirical  Jobber,  who  announced  himself  as  having  to  Let 

A  neat  one-horse  fly,  and  a  one-horse  cart,"  had  estab- 
lished his  business,  himself,  and  his  family  in  a  part  of 
the  extensive  stables.  Another  part  was  lopped  clean 
off  from  the  Dolphin's  Head,  and  now  comprised  a 
chapel,  a  wheel-wright's,  and  a  Young  Men's  Mutual 
Improvement  and  Discussion  Society  (in  a  loft) ;  the 
whole  forming  a  black  lane.  No  audacious  hand  had 
plucked  down  the  vane  from  the  central  cupola  of  the 
stables,  but  it  had  grown  rusty,  and  stuck  at  N — Nil  ; 
while  the  score  or  two  of  pigeons  that  remained  true 
to  their  ancestral  traditions  and  the  place  had  col^ 
iected  in  a  row  on  the  roof-ridge  of  the  only  outhouse 
retained  by  the  Dolphin,  where  all  the  inside  pigeons 
tried  to  push  the  outside  pigeon  off.  This  I  accepted  as 
emblematical  of  the  struggle  for  post  and  place  in  rail, 
way  times. 

Sauntering  forth  into  the  town,  by  way  of  the  covered 
and  pillared  entrance  to  the  Dolphin's  Yard,  once  redo- 
lent of  soup  and  stable  litter,  now  redolent  of  musty 
disuse,  I  paced  the  street.  It  was  a  hot  day,  and  the 
little  sun-blinds  of  the  shops  were  all  drawn  down,  and 
the  more  enterprising  tradesmen  had  caused  their  'Pren- 
tices to  trickle  water  on  the  pavement  appertaining  to 
their  frontage.  It  looked  as  if  they  had  been  shedding 
tears  for  the  stage-coaches,  and  drying  their  ineffectual 
pocket-handkerchiefs.  Such  weakness  would  have  been 
excusable  ;  for  business  was — as  one  dejected  pork-man, 
who  kept  a  shop  which  refused  to  reciprocate  the  com- 
pliment bv  keeping  him.  informed  me — bitter  bad." 


486 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Most  of  the  harness-makers  and  corn-dealers  were  gon^ 
the  way  of  the  coaches  ;  but  it  was  a  pleasant  recogni- 
tion of  the  eternal  procession  of  Children  down  that  0I4 
original  steep  Incline,  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  that 
those  tradesmen  were  mostly  succeeded  by  vendors  or 
sweetmeats  and  cheap  toys.  The  opposition  house  to 
the  Dolphin,  once  famous  as  the  New  White  Hart,  haq 
long  collapsed.  In  a  fit  of  abject  depression,  it  had  cast 
whitewash  on  its  windows,  and  boarded  up  its  front 
door,  and  reduced  itself  to  a  side  entrance  ;  but  evep 
that  had  proved  a  world  too  wide  for  the  Literary  Insti- 
tution which  had  been  its  last  phase  ;  for  the  Institu- 
tion had  collapsed  too,  and  of  the  ambitious  letters  of 
its  inscription  on  the  White  Hart's  front,  all  had  falleij 
off  but  these  : — 

L  Y    INS  T 

— suggestive  of  Lamentably  Insolvent.  As  to  the 
neighbouring  market-place,  it  seemed  to  have  wholly  re- 
linquished marketing  to  the  dealer  in  crockery,  whose 
pots  and  pans  straggled  half  across  it,  and  to  the 
Cheap  Jack  who  sat  with  folded  arms  on  the  shafts  of 
his  cart,  superciliously  gazing  around,  his  velveteen 
waistcoat  evidently  harbouring  grave  doubts  whether 
it  was  worth  his  while  to  stay  a  night  in  such  a  place. 

The  church-bells  began  to  ring  as  I  left  this  spot,  but 
they  by  no  means  improved  the  case  ;  for  thev  said  in  fi 
petulant  way,  and  speaking  with  some  difficulty  in  their 
Irritation,  WHAT's-be-come-of-THE-coach-ES  I  "  Nor 
would  they  (I  found  on  listening)  ever  vary  their  em- 
phasis, save  in  respect  of  growing  more  sharp  and  vexed, 
but  invariably  went  on,  WHAT's-be-come-of-THE-coach- 
ES  I " — always  beginning  the  inquiry  with  an  unpolite 
abruptness.  Perhaps  from  their  elevation  they  saw  the 
railway,  and  it  aggravated  them. 

Coming  upon  a  coachmaker's  workshop,  I  began  to 
look  about  me  with  a  revived  spirit,  thinking  that  per- 
chance I  might  behold  there  some  remains  of  the  old 
times  of  the  town's  greatness.  There  was  only  one  man 
at  work, — a  dry  man,  grizzled,  and  far  advanced  in 
years,  but  tall  and  upright,  who,  becoming  aware  of 
me  looking  on,  straightened  his  back,  pushed  up  his 
spectacles  against  his  brown  paper  cap,  and  appeared  in- 
clined to  defy  me.    To  whom  I  pacifically  said  : — 

**  Good  day,  sir  I " 
What?"  said  he. 
Good  day,  sir." 

He  seemed  to  consider  about  that,  and  not  to  agree 
with  me. — Was  you  looking  for  anything?"  he  then 
asked,  in  a  pointed  manner. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  487 


**  I  was  wondering  whetlier  thef e  happened  to  be  any 
fragment  of  an  old  stage-coach  here.** 
''Is  that  all?" 
''That's  all." 
*'  No,  there  ain't." 

"  It  was  now  my  turn  to  say,  **  Oh  !  "  and  I  said  it. 
Not  another  word  did  the  dry  and  grizzled  man  say,  but 
b«3nt  to  his  work  again.  In  the  coach-making  days,  the 
coach-painters  had  tried  their  brushes  on  a  post  beside 
him  ;  and  quite  a  Calendar  of  departed  glories  was  to  be 
read  upon  it,  in  blue  and  yellow  and  red  and  green, 
some  inches  thick.    Presently  he  looked  up  again. 

You  seem  to  have  a  deal  of  time  on  your  hands," 
was  his  querulous  remark. 

I  admitted  the  fact. 
I  think  it's  a  pity  you  was  not  brought  up  to  some- 
thing," said  he. 

I  said  I  thought  so  too. 

Appearing  to  be  informed  with  an  idea,  he  laid  down 
his  plane  (for  it  was     plane  he  was  at  work  with),  and 
pushed  up  his  spectacles  again,  and  came  to  the  door. 
Would  a  po-shay  do  for  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

''I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  what  you  mean." 

"  Would  a  po-shay,"  said  the  coachmaker,  standing 
dose  before  me,  and  folding  his  arms  in  the  manner  of  a 
dross-examining  counsel, — would  a  po-shay  meet  the 
views  you  have  expressed  ?   Yes,  or  no  ?  " 
Yes." 

**Then  you  keep  straight  along  down  there  till  yo\> 
see  one.    You'll  see  one  if  you  go  fur  enough." 

With  that,  he  turned  me  by  the  shoulder  in  the  direc- 
'tion  I  was  to  take,  and  went  in  and  resumed  his  work 
against  a  background  of  leaves  and  grapes.  For,  al- 
though he  was  a  soured  man  and  a  discontented,  his 
Workshop  was  that  agreeable  mixture  of  town  and  coun- 
try, street  and  garden,  which  is  often  to  be  seen  in  a 
small  English  town. 

I  went  the  way  he  had  turned  me,  and  I  came  to  the 
Beershop  with  the  sign  of  The  First  and  Last,  and  was 
out  of  the  town  on  the  old  London  road.  I  came  to  the 
Turnpike,  and  I  found  it,  in  its  silent  way,  eloquent  re- 
specting the  change  that  had  fallen  on  the  road.  The 
Turnpike  house  was  all  overgrown  with  ivy  ;  and  the 
Turnpike-keeper,  unable  to  get  a  living  out  of  the  tolls, 
plied  the  trade  of  a  cobbler.  Not  only  that,  but  his  wife 
sold  ginger-beer,  and,  in  the  very  window  of  espial 
through  which  the  Toll-takers  of  old  times  used  with  awe 
k)  behold  the  grand  London  coaches  coming  on  at  a  gal- 
lop, exhibited  for  sale  little  barber's  poles  of  sweet  stufi 
in  a  sticky  lantern. 


488 


Works  of  charles  dickens. 


The  political  economy  of  tlie  master  of  the  turnpike 
thus  expressed  itself. 

**How  goes  turnpike  business,  master?"  said  I  to 
him,  as  he  sat  in  his  little  porch,  repairing  a  shoe. 

*'It  don't  go  at  all,  master,"  said  he  to  me.  ''It's 
stopped." 

That's  bad,"  said  I. 

Bad?"  he  repeated.    And  he  pointed  to  one  of  his 
sunburnt,  dusty  children,  who  was  climbing  the  turn- 
pike-gate, and  said,  extending  his  open  riglit  hand  in 
remonstrance  with  Universal  Nature.       Five  on  'em  I  " 
*'  But  how  to  improve  Turnpike  business  ?  "  said  I. 
There's  a  way,  master,"  said  he,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  had  thought  deeply  on  the  subject, 
should  like  to  know  it." 
**Lay  a  toll  on  everything  as  comes  through;  lay  a 
toll  on  walkers.    Lay  another  toll  on  everything  as 
don't  come  through ;  lay  a  toll  on  them  as  stops  at 
home. " 

Would  the  last  remedy  be  fair  ?  " 
Fair?   Them  as  stops  at  home  could  come  through 
if  they  liked, — couldn't  they?" 
Say  they  could." 

"  Toll  'em.  If  they  don't  come  through,  it's  their  look-^ 
out.    Anyways, — toll  'em  !  " 

Finding  it  was  as  impossible  to  argue  vrith  this  finan- 
cial genius  as  if  he  had  been  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer,  and  consequently  the  right  man  in  the  right 
place,  I  passed  on  meekly. 

My  mind  now  began  to  misgive  me  that  the  disap* 
pointed  coachmaker  had  sent  me  on  a  wild-goose  errand, 
and  that  there  was  no  post-chaise  in  those  parts.  But 
coming  within  view  of  certain  allotment-gardens  by  the 
roadside,  I  retracted  the  suspicion,  and  confessed  that  \ 
had  done  him  an  injustice.  For  there  I  saw,  surely,  th^ 
poorest  superannuated  post-chaise  left  on  earth. 

It  was  a  post-chaise  taken  off  its  axletree  and  wheels, 
and  plumped  down  on  the  clayey  soil  among  a  ragged 
growth  of  vegetables.  It  w^as  a  post-chaise  not  even  set 
straight  upon  the  ground,  but  tilted  over,  as  if  it  haq 
fallen  out  of  a  balloon.  It  was  a  post-chaise  that  ha^ 
been  a  long  time  in  those  decayed  circumstances,  and 
against  which  scarlet  beans  were  trained.  It  was  a 
post-chaise  patched  and  mended  with  old  tea-trays,  or 
with  scraps  of  iron  that  looked  like  them,  and  boarded 
up  as  to  the  windows,  but  having  a  knocker  on  the  off- 
side door.  Whether  it  was  a  post-chaise  used  as  a  tool- 
house,  summer-house,  or  dwelling-house,  I  could  not  dis- 
cover, for  there  was  nobody  at  home  at  the  post-chais^ 
when  I  knocked  ;  but  it  was  certainly  used  for  some^ 
thing,  and  locked  up.    In  the  wonder  of  this  discovery. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


489 


I  walked  round  and  round  the  post-chaifye  many  times, 
and  sat  down  by  the  post-chaise,  waiting  for  furtljer 
elucidation.  None  came.  At  last  I  made  my  way  back 
to  the  old  London  road  by  the  farther  end  of  the  allot 
ment-gardens,  and  consequently  at  a  point  beyond  that 
from  which  I  had  diverged.  I  had  to  scramble  through 
a  hedge  and  down  a  steep  bank,  and  I  nearly  came, 
down  atop  of  a  little  spare  man  who  sat  breaking  stonew 
by  the  roadside. 

He  stayed  his  hammer,  and  said,  regarding  me  myste- 
riously through  his  dark  goggles  of  wire  : — 

Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  you've  been  trespassing?" 

"  I  turned  out  of  the  way/'  said  I,  in  explanation,  to 
look  at  that  odd  post-chaise.  Do  you  happen  to  know 
anything  about  it  ?  " 

I  know  it  was  many  a  year  upon  the  road,"  said  he. 
So  I  supposed.    Do  you  know  to  whom  it  belongs?" 

The  stone-breaker  bent  his  brows  and  goggles  over 
his  heap  of  stones,  as  if  he  were  considering  whether  he 
should  answer  the  question  or  not.  Then  raising  hia 
barred  eyes  to  my  features  as  before,  he  said, — 

''To  me." 

Being  quite  unprepared  for  the  reply,  I  received  it 
with  a  sufficiently  awkward,  ''Indeed!  Dear  me!" 
Presently  I  added,  "  Do  you — "  I  was  going  to  say 
"  live  there,"  but  it  seemed  so  absurd  a  question  that  1 
substituted,  ' '  live  near  here  ?" 

The  stone-breaker,  who  had  not  broken  a  fragment 
since  we  began  to  converse,  then  did  as  follows  :  he 
raised  himself  by  poising  his  figure  on  his  hammer,  and 
took  his  coat,  on  which  he  had  been  seated,  over  his 
arm.  He  then  backed  to  an  easier  part  of  the  bank 
than  that  by  which  I  had  come  down,  keeping  his  dark 
goggles  silently  upon  me  all  the  time,  and  then  shoul- 
dered his  hammer,  suddenly  turned,  ascended,  and  was 
gone.  His  face  was  so  small,  and  his  goggles  were  so 
large,  that  he  left  me  wholly  uninformed  as  to  his 
countenance  ;  but  he  left  me  a  profound  impression  that 
the  curved  legs  I  had  seen  from  behind  as  he  vanished 
were  the  legs  of  an  old  post-boy.  It  was  not  until  theu 
fetat  r  noticed  he  tad  "been  working  by  a  grass-grown 
milestone,  which  looked  like  a  tombstone  erected  over 
the  grave  of  the  London  road. 

My  dinner-hour  being  close  at  hand,  I  had  no  leisure  to 
pursue  the  goggles  or  the  subject  then,  but  made  my  way 
back  to  the  Dolphin's  Head.  In  the  gateway  I  found  J. 
Mellows,  looking  at  nothing,  apparently  experiencing 
that  it  failed  to  raise  his  spirits. 

"/don't  care  for  the  town,"  said  J.  Mellows,  when  I 
complimented  him  on  the  sanitary  advantages  it  may  or 
may  not  possess  ;  '*  I  wish  I  had  never  s^en  the  town  I" 


490  WOKKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


You  don't  belong  to  it,  Mr.  Mellows?" 

**  Belong  to  it  I repeated  Mellows.  **If  I  didn't  be- 
long  to  a  better  style  of  town  than  this,  I'd  take  and 
drown  myself  in  a  pail."  It  then  occurred  to  me  that 
iVTellows,  having  so  little  to  do,  was  habitually  thrown 
back  on  his  internal  resources, — by  which  I  mean  the 
Dolphin's  cellar. 

What  we  want,"  said  Mellows,  pulling  off  his  hat, 
and  making  a^i  if  he  emptied  it  of  the  last  load  of  Dis- 
gust that  had  exuded  from  his  brain  before  he  put  it  on 
again  for  another  load — ''what  we  want  is  a  Branch. 
The  Petition  for  the  Branch  Bill  is  in  the  coffee-room. 
Would  you  put  your  name  to  it  ?    Every  little  helps." 

I  found  the  document  in  question  stretched  flat  on  the 
coffee-room  table  by  the  aid  of  certain  weights  from  the 
kitchen,  and  I  gave  it  the  additional  weight  of  my  un- 
commercial signature.  To  the  best  of  my  belief,  I  bound 
myself  to  the  modest  statement  that  universal  traflBic, 
happiness,  prosperity,  and  civilization,  together  with  un- 
bounded national  triumph  in  competition  with  the  for- 
eigner, would  infallibly  flow  from  the  Branch. 

Having  achieved  this  constitutional  feat,  I  asked  Mr. 
Mellows  if  he  could  grace  my  dinner  with  a  pint  of  good 
wine.    Mr.  Mellows  thus  replied  : — 

''  If  I  couldn't  give  you  a  pint  of  good  wine,  I'd — there! 
— I'd  take  and  drown  myself  in  a  pail.  But  I  was  de- 
ceived when  I  bought  this  business,  and  the  stock  was 
higgledy-piggledy,  and  I  haven't  yet  tasted  my  way  quite 
through  it  with  a  view  to  sorting  it.  Therefore,  if  you 
order  one  kind  and  get  another,  change  till  it  comes  right. 
For  what,"  said  Mellows,  unloading  his  hat  as  before, — 
"  what  would  you  or  any  gentleman  do,  if  you  ordered 
one  kind  of  wine  and  was  required  to  drink  another? 
Why,  you'd  (and  naturally  and  properly,  having  the  feel- 
yogs  of  a  gentleman), — you'd  take  and  drown  yourself  in 
a  pail  1" 


XXIII. 

The  Boiled  Beef  of  New  England, 

The  shabbiness  of  our  English  capital,  as  compared 
with  Paris,  Bordeaux,  Frankfort,  Milan,  Geneva, — al- 
most any  important  town  on  the  continent  of  Europe, — I 
find  very  striking  after  an  absence  of  any  duration  in 
foreign  parts.  London  is  shabby  in  contrast  with  Edin- 
burgh, with  Aberdeen,  with  Exeter,  with  Liverpool,  with 
a  bright  little  town  like  Bury  St.  Edmund's.  London  is 
shabby  in  contrast  with  New  York,  with  Boston,  with 
Philadelphia.    In  detail,  one  would  say  it  can  rarely  fail 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  491 


to  be  a  disappointing  piece  of  shabbiness  to  a  strangei 
from  any  of  those  places.  There  is  nothing  shabbier 
than  Drury  Lane  in  Rome  itself.  The  meanness  of  Re- 
gent Street,  set  against  the  great  line  of  Boulevards 
in  Paris,  is  as  striking  as  the  abortive  ugliness  of  Traf^ 
algar  Square  set  against  the  gallant  beauty  of  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  London  is  shabby  by  daylight,  and 
shabbier  by  gaslight.  No  Englishman  knows  what  gas- 
light is  until  he  sees  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  the  Palais 
Royal  after  dark. 

The  mass  of  London  people  are  shabby.  The  absence 
of  distinctive  dress  has,  no  doubt,  something  to  do  with 
it.  The  porters  of  the  Vintners'  Company,  the  draymen, 
and  the  butchers,  are  about  the  only  people  who  wear 
elistinctive  dresses  ;  and  even  these  do  not  wear  them  on 
holidays.  We  have  nothing  which  for  cheapness,  clean- 
liness, convenience,  or  picturesqueness  can  compare  with 
the  belted  blouse.  As  to  our  women  ; — next  Easter  or 
Whitsuntide  look  at  the  bonnets  at  the  British  Museum 
or  the  National  Gallery,  and  think  of  the  pretty  white 
French  cap,  the  Spanish  mantilla,  or  the  Genoese  mez- 
zero. 

Probably  there  are  not  more  second-hand  clothes  sold 
in  London  than  in  Paris,  and  yet  the  mass  of  the  London 
population  have  a  second-hand  look  which  is  not  to  be 
detected  on  the  mass  of  the  Parisian  population.  I  think 
this  is  mainly  because  a  Parisian  workman  does  not  in 
the  least  trouble  himself  about  what  is  worn  by  a  Pa- 
risian idler,  but  dresses  in  the  way  of  his  own  class,  and 
for  his  own  comfort.  In  London,  on  the  contrary,  th© 
fashions  descend  ;  and  you  never  fully  know  how  incon- 
venient or  ridiculous  a  fashion  is,  until  you  see  it  in  its 
last  descent.  It  was  but  the  other  day,  on  a  race-course, 
that  I  observed  four  people  in  a  barouche  deriving  great 
entertainment  from  the  contemplation  of  four  people  on 
foot.  The  four  people  on  foot  were  two  young  men  and 
two  young  women;  the  four  people  in  the  barouche  were 
two  young  men  and  two  young  women.  The  four  young 
women  were  dressed  in  exactly  the  same  style  ;  the  four 
young  men  were  dressed  in  exactly  the  same  style.  Yet 
the  two  couples  on  wheels  were  as  much  amused  by  the 
two  couples  on  foot  as  if  they  were  quite  unconscious  of 
having  themselves  set  those  fashions,  or  of  being  at  that 
very  moment  engaged  in  the  display  of  them. 

Is  it  only  in  the  matter  of  clothes  that  fashion 
descends  here  in  London, — and  consequently  in  England, 
— and  thence  shabbiness  arises  ?  Let  us  think  a  little, 
and  be  just.  The  "Black  Country"  round  about  Bir- 
mingham is  a  very  black  country  :  but  is  it  quite  as 
black  as  it  has  been  lately  painted?  An  appalling  acci- 
dent happened  at  the  People's  Park  near  Birmingham, 


492 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


this  last  July,  when  it  was  crowded  with  people  from 
the  Black  Country,— an  appalling  accident  consequent  on 
a  shamefully  dangerous  exhibition.  Did  the  shamefully 
dangerous  exhibition  originate  in  the  moral  blackness  of 
the  Black  Country,  and  in  the  Black  People's  peculiar 
love  of  the  excitement  attendant  on  great  personal  haz- 
ard, which  they  looked  on  at,  but  in  which  they  did  not 
]:)articipate  ?  Light  is  much  wanted  in  the  Black  coun- 
try. O,  we  are  all  agreed  on  that.  But  we  must  not 
quite  forget  the  crowds  of  gentlefolks  who  set  the 
shamefully  dangerous  fashion  either.  We  must  not 
quite  forget  the  enterprising  Directors  of  an  Institution 
vaunting  mighty  educational  pretences,  who  made  the 
low  sensation  as  strong  as  they  possibly  could  make  it  by 
hanging  the  Blondin  rope  as  high  as  they  possibly  could 
hang  it.  All  this  must  not  be  eclipsed  in  the  blackness 
of  the  Black  Country.  The  reserved  seats  high  up  hj 
the  rope,  the  cleared  space  below  it,  so  that  no  one 
should  be  smashed  by  the  performer,  the  pretence  of 
slipping  and  falling  off,  the  baskets  for  the  feet  and  the 
sack  for  the  head,  the  photographs  everywhere,  and  the 
virtuous  indignation  nowhere, — all  this  must  not  be 
wholly  swallowed  up  in  the  blackness  of  the  jet-black 
country. 

Whatsoever  fashion  is  set  in  England  is  certain  to 
descend.  This  is  the  text  for  a  perpetual  sermon  on 
care  in  setting  fashions.  When  you  find  a  fashion  low 
down,  look  back  for  the  time  (it  will  never  be  far  off) 
when  it  was  the  fashion  high  up.  This  is  the  text  for  a 
perpetual  sermon  on  social  justice.  From  imitations  of 
Ethiopian  Serenaders,  to  imitations  of  Princes' coats  and 
waistcoats,  you  will  find  the  original  model  in  St.  James's 
Parish.  When  the  Serenaders  become  tiresome,  trace 
them  beyond  the  Black  Country ;  when  the  coats  and 
waistcoats  become  insupportable,  refer  them  to  their 
source  in  the  Upper  Toady  Regions. 

Gentlemen's  clubs  were  once  maintained  for  purposes 
of  savage  party  warfare  ;  workingmen's  clubs  of  the 
same  day  assumed  the  same  character.  Gentlemen's 
clubs  became  places  of  quiet  inoffensive  recreation ; 
workingmen's  clubs  began  to  follow  suit.  If  working- 
men  have  seemed  rather  slow  to  appreciate  advantages 
of  combination  which  have  saved  the  pockets  of  gentle- 
men, and  enhanced  their  comforts,  it  is  because  working- 
men  could  scarcely,  for  want  of  capital,  originate  such 
combinations  without  help  ;  and  because  help  has  not 
been  separable  from  that  great  impertinence,  Patronage. 
The  instinctive  revolt  of  his  spirit  against  patronage  is 
a  quality  much  to  be  respected  in  the  English  working- 
man.  It  is  the  base  of  the  base  of  his  best  qualities. 
Nor  is  it  surprising  that  he  should  be  unduly  suspicious 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


403 


of  patronage,  and  sometimes  resentful  of  it  even  where 
it  is  not,  seeing  what  a  flood  of  washy  talk  has  been  let 
loose  on  his  devoted  head,  or  with  what  complacent  con< 
descension  the  same  devoted  head  has  been  smoothed 
and  patted.  It  is  a  proof  to  me  of  his  self-control,  that 
he  n-^ver  strikes  out  pugiJistically,  right  and  left,  when 
addressed  as  one,  of  *'My  friends,"  or  *'My  assembled 
friends "  ;  that  he  does  not  become  inappeasable,  and 
run  amuck  like  a  Malay,  whenever  he  sees  a  biped  in 
broadcloth  getting  on  a  platform  to  talk  to  him  ;  that 
any  pretence  of  improving  his  mind  does  not  instantly 
drive  him  out  of  his  mind,  and  cause  him  to  toss  his 
obliging  patron  ]ike  a  mad  bull. 

For  how  often  have  I  heard  the  unfortunate  working- 
man  lectured,  as  if  he  were  a  little  charity-child,  humid 
as  to  his  nasal  development,  strictly  literal  as  to  his 
Catechism,  and  called  by  Providence  to  walk  all  his  days 
in  a  station  in  life  represented  on  festive  occasions  by  a 
mug  of  warm  milk-and-water  and  a  bun  !  What  pop- 
guns of  jokes  have  these  ears  tingled  to  hear  let  off  at 
him,  what  asinine  sentiments,  what  impotent  conclu- 
sions, what  spelling-book  moralities,  what  adaptations  of 
the  orator's  insufferable  tediousness  to  the  assumed  level 
of  his  understanding  !  If  his  sledge-hammers,  his  spades 
and  pick- axes,  his  saw  and  chisels,  his  paint-pots  and 
brushes,  his  forges,  furnaces,  and  engines,  the  horses 
that  he  drove  at  his  work,  and  the  machines  that  drove 
^  him  at  his  work,  were  all  toys  in  one  little  paper  box, 
*and  he  the  baby  who  played  with  them,  he  could  not 
have  been  discoursed  to  more  impertinently  and  absurdly 
than  I  have  heard  him  discoursed  to  times  innumerable. 
Consequently,  not  being  a  fool  or  a  fawner,  he  has  come 
to  acknowledge  his  patronage  by  virtually  saying  :  Let 
me  alone.  If  you  understand  me  no  better  than  that, 
sir  and  madam,  let  me  alone.  You  mean  very  well,  I 
dare  say :  but  I  don*t  like  it,  and  I  won't  come  hore 
again  to  have  any  more  of  it." 

Whatever  is  done  for  the  comfort  and  advancement  of 
the  workingman  must  be  so  far  done  by  himself  as  that 
it  is  maintained  by  himself.  And  there  must  be  in  it  no 
touch  of  condescension,  no  shadow  of  patronage.  In  the 
great  working  districts  this  truth  is  studied  and  under- 
stood. When  the  American  civil  war  rendered  it  neces- 
sary, first  in  Glasgow,  and  afterwards  in  Manchester,  that 
the  working  people  should  be  shown  how  to  avail  them- 
selves of  the  advantages  derivable  from  system,  and 
from  the  combination  of  numbers,  in  the  purchase  and 
the  cooking  of  their  food,  this  truth  was  above  all  things 
borne  in  mind.  The  quick  consequence  was,  that  sus- 
picion and  reluctance  were  vanquished,  and  that  the 
effort  resulted  in  an  astonishing  and  a  complete  success. 


494  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Such  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind  on  a  July 
morning  of  this  summer,  as  I  walked  towards  Commer- 
cial Street  (not  Uncommercial  Street),  Whitechapel. 
The  Glasgow  and  Manchester  system  had  been  lately  set 
ii-going  there  by  certain  gentlemen  who  felt  an  interest 
)n  its  diffusion,  and  I  had  been  attracted  by  the  follow- 
ing handbill  printed  on  rose-coloured  paper  :— 

SELF-SUPPORTING 

COOKING  DEPOT 

FOR  THE  WORKING  CLASSES, 

Commercial  Street,  Whitechapel, 

Where  Acconamodation  is  provided  for  Dining  comfort- 
ably 300  Persons  at  a  time. 

Open  from  7  a.m.  till  7  P.M. 

PRICES. 

All  Articles  of  the  Best  Quality. 


Cup  of  Tea  or  Coffee   One  Penny 

Bread  and  Butter.  ,    One  Penny 

Bread  and  Cheese   One  Penny 

Slice  of  Bread  One  Half-penny  or   One  Penny 

Boiled  Egg     One  Penny 

Giager  Beer.  ,  One  Penny 

The  above  Articles  always  ready. 
Besides  the  above  may  be  had,  from  12  to  ^  o'clock, 

Bowl  of  Scotch  Broth   One  Penny 

Bowl  of  Soup   One  Penny 

Plate  of  Potatoes   One  Penny 

Plate  of  Minced  Beef   One  Penny 

Plate  of  Cold  Beef   Twopence 

Plate  of  Cold  Ham   Twopence 

Plate  of  Plum  Pudding,  or  Rice   Twopence 


As  the  Economy  of  Cooking  depends  greatly  upon  th^ 
simplicity  of  the  arrangements  with  which  a  great  num- 
ber of  persons  can  be  served  at  one  time,  the  Upper 
Room  of  this  Establishment  will  be  especially  set  apart 
for  a  ^ 
Public  DINNER  every  Day 


From  12  till  3  o'clock. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


495 


Consisting  of  the  foUowing  Dishes - 

Bowl  of  Broth,  or  Soup, 
Plate  of  Cold  Beef,  or  Ham, 
Plate  of  Potatoes, 
Plum  Pudding,  or  Rice, 

FIXED  CHARGE,  4i<Z. 

THE  DAILY  PAPERS  PROVIDED. 

£^.B. — This  Establishment  is  conducted  on  the  strict. 
3st  business  principles,  with  the  fiill  intention  of  making 
it  self-supporting,  so  that  every  one  may  frequent  it 
with  a  feeling  of  perfect  independence. 

The  assistance  of  all  frequenting  the  Depot  is  confi- 
dently expected  in  checking  anything  interfering  with 
the  comfort,  quiet,  and  regularity  of  the  establishment. 

Please  do  not  destroy  this  Handbill,  but  hand  it  to 
some  0  "her  person  whom  it  may  interest. 

This  Self -Supporting  Cooking  Depot  (not  a  very  good 
name,  and  one  would  rather  give  it  an  English  one)  had 
hired  a  newly  built  warehouse  that  it  found  to  let :; 
therefore  it  was  not  established  in  premises  specially 
designed  for  the  purpose.  But  at  a  small  cost  they  were 
exceedingly  well  adapted  to  the  purpose,  being  light, 
well  ventilated,  clean  and  cheerful.  They  consisted  of 
three  large  rooms.  That  on  the  basement  story  was  the 
kitchen  ;  that  on  the  ground-floor  was  the  general  din- 
ing-room ;  that  on  the  floor  above  was  the  Upper  Room 
referred  to  in  the  handbill,  where  the  Public  Dinner  at 
fourpence  halfpenny  a  head  was  provided  every  day. 
The  cooking  was  done,  with  much  economy  of  space  and 
fuel,  by  American  cooking  stoves  and  by  young  women 
not  previously  brought  up  as  cooks  ;  the  walls  and  pil- 
lars of  the  two  dining-rooms  were  agreeably  brightened 
with  ornamental  colours ;  the  tables  were  capable  of 
accommodating  six  or  eight  persons  each  ;  the  attendants 
were  all  young  women,  becomingly  and  neatly  diessed, 
and  dressed  alike.  I  think  the  whole  staff  was  female, 
with  the  exception  of  the  steward  or  manager. 

My  first  inquiries  were  directed  to  the  wages  of  this 
staff  ;  because,  if  any  establishment  claiming  to  be  self- 
supporting  live  upon  the  spoliation  of  anybody  or  any- 
thing, or  eke  out  a  feeble  existence  by  poor  mouths  and 
beggarly  resources  (as  too  many  so-called  Mechanics* 
Institutions  do),  I  make  bold  to  express  my  Uncommercial 
opinion  that  it  has  no  business  to  live,  and  had  better 
die.  It  was  made  clear  to  me,  by  the  account- books, 
that  every  person  employed  was  properly  paid.  My  next 
inquiries  were  directed  to  the  quality  of  the  provisions 


WOKKS  OF  0HAKLK8  DiCKExNS. 


purchased,  and  to  the  terms  on  which  they  were  hought. 
it  was  made  equally  clear  to  me  that  the  quality  was  the 
very  best,  and  that  all  bills  were  paid  weekly.  My  ne:\t 
inquiries  were  directed  to  the  balance-sheet  for  the  last 
two  weeks, — only  the  third  and  fourth  of  the  establish- 
ment's career.  It  was  made  equally  clear  to  me,  that 
after  everything  bought  was  paid  for,  and  after  each 
week  was  charged  with  its  full  share  of  wages,  rent,  and 
•  axes,  depreciation  of  plant  in  use,  and  interest  on  cap- 
ital at  the  rate  of  four  per  cent,  per  annum,  the  last 
week  had  yielded  a  profit  of  (in  round  numbers)  one 
pound  ten,  and  the  previous  week  a  profit  of  six  pounds 
&en»  By  this  time  I  felt  that  I  had  a  healthy  appetite 
^'or  the  dinners. 

It  had  just  struck  twelve,  and  a  quick  succession  ot 
faces  had  already  begun  to  appear  at  a  little  window  in 
the  wall  of  the  partitioned  space  wliere  I  sat  looking 
over  the  books.  Within  this  little  window,  like  a  pay- 
box at  a  theatre,  a  neat  and  brisk  young  woman  presided 
to  take  money  and  issue  tickets.  Every  one  coming  in 
must  take  a  ticket.  Either  the  fourpence-halfpenny 
ticket  for  the  upper  room  (the  most  popular  ticket,  I 
think),  or  a  penny  ticket  for  a  bowl  of  soup,  or  as  many 
penny  tickets  as  he  or  she  chose  to  buy.  For  three 
penny  tickets  one  had  quite  a  wide  range  of  choice.  A 
plate  of  cold  boiled  beef  and  potatoes  ;  or  a  plate  of  cold 
bam  and  potatoes ;  or  a  plate  of  hot  minced  beef  and 
potatoes ;  or  a  bowl  of  soup,  bread  and  cheese,  and  a 
plate  of  plum  pudding.  Touching  what  they  should 
have,  some  customers  on  taking  their  seats  fell  into  a 
reverie, — became  mildly  distracted, — postponed  decision, 
and  said,  in  bewilderment,  they  would  think  of  it.  One 
old  man  I  noticed  when  I  sat  among  the  tables  in  the 
lower  room,  who  was  startled  by  the  bill  of  fare,  and  sat 
contemplating  it  as  if  it  were  something  of  a  ghostly 
nature.  The  decision  of  the  boys  was  as  rapid  as  their 
execution,  and  always  included  pudding. 

There  were  several  women  among  the  diners,  and 
several  clerks  and  shopmen.  There  were  carpenters  and 
painters  from  neighbouring  buildings  under  repair,  and 
there  were  nautical  men,  and  there  were,  as  one  diner 
observed  to  me,  '*some  of  most  sorts."  Some  were 
solitary,  some  came  two  together,  some  dined  in  parties 
of  three  or  four  or  six.  The  latter  talked  together,  but 
assuredly  no  one  was  louder  than  at  my  club  in  Pall 
Mall.  One  young  fellow  whistled  in  rather  a  shrill 
manner  while  he  waited  for  his  dinner,  but  I  was  grati- 
fied to  observe  that  he  did  so  in  evident  defiance  of  my 
Uncommercial  individuality.  Quite  agreeing  with  him, 
on  consideration,  that  I  had  no  business  to  be  there,  \m- 


THE  TUNCOMMEROIAL  TRAVELLER. 


497 


less  I  dined  like  the  rest.  T  went  in,"  as  the  i)hrase  is. 
for  fourpence  halfpenny. 

The  room  of  the  fourpence  halfpenny  banquet  had, 
like  the  lower  room,  a  counter  in  it,  on  which  were 
ranged  a  great  number  of  cold  portions  ready  for  distri- 
bution. Behind  this  counter  the  fragrant  soup  was 
steaming  in  deep  cans,  and  the  best  cooked  of  potatoes 
were  fished  out  of  similar  receptacles.  Nothing  to  eat 
vas  touched  with  the  hand.  Every  waitress  had  her 
cwn  tables  to  attend  to.  As  soon  as  she  saw  a  new  cus- 
tomer seat  himself  at  one  of  her  tables,  she  took  from  the 
counter  all  his  dinner, — his  soup,  potatoes,  meat  and 
pudding, — piled  it  up  dexterously  in  her  two  hands,  set 
it  before  him,  and  took  his  ticket.  This  serving  of  the 
whole  dinner  at  once  had  been  found  greatly  to  simplify 
the  business  of  attendance,  and  was  also  popular  with 
the  customers,  who  were  thus  enabled  to  vary  the  meal 
by  varying  the  routine  of  dishes  ;  beginning  with  soup 
to-day,  putting  soup  in  the  middle  to-morrow,  putting 
soup  at  the  end  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  ringing 
similar  changes  on  meat  and  pudding.  The  rapidity 
with  which  every  new-comer  got  served  was  remarkable  ; 
knd  the  dexterity  with  which  the  waitresses  (quite  new 
to  the  art  a  mouth  before)  discharged  their  duty  was  as 
j^greeable  to  see  as  the  neafc  smartness  with  which  they 
wore  their  dress  and  had  dressed  their  hair. 

If  I  seldom  saw  better  waiting,  so  I  certainly  never  ate 
better  meat,  potatoes,  or  pudding.  And  the  soup  was 
an  honest  and  stout  soup,  with  rice  and  barley  in  it,  and 

little  matters  for  the  teeth  to  touch,"  as  had  been  ob- 
served to  me  by  my  friend  below  stairs,  already  quoted. 
The  dinner-service,  too,  was  neither  conspicuously  hide- 
ous  for  High  Art  nor  for  Low  Art,  but  was  of  a  pleasant 
and  pure  appearance.  Concerning  the  viands  and  their 
cookery,  one  last  remark.  I  dined  at  my  club  in  Pall 
Mall  aforesaid,  a  few  days  afterwards,  for  exactly  twelve 
times  the  money,  and  not  half  as  well. 

The  company  thickened  after  one  o'clock  struck,  and 
changed  pretty  quickly.  Although  experience  of  the 
place  had  been  so  recently  attainable,  and  although  thera 
was  still  considerable  curiosity  out  in  the  street  and 
about  the  entrance,  the  general  tone  was  as  good  as 
could  be,  and  the  customers  fell  easily  into  the  ways  of 
he  place.  It  was  clear  to  me,  however,  that  they  were 
there  to  have  what  they  paid  for,  and  to  be  on  an  inde- 
pendent footing.  To  the  best  of  my  judgment,  they 
might  be  patronized  out  of  the  building  in  a  month. 
With  judicious  visiting,  and  by  dint  of  being  questioned, 
read  to,  and  talked  at,  they  might  even  be  got  rid  of  (for 
the  next  quarter  of  a  century)  in  half  the  time. 

This  disinterested  and  wise  movement  is  fraught  with 


m 


WOKKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


SO  many  wholesome  changes  in  the  lives  of  the  working 
people,  and  with  so  much  good  in  the  way  of  overcoming 
that  suspicion  which  our  own  unconscious  impertinence 
has  engendered,  that  it  is  scarcely  gracious  to  criticise 
details  as  yet ;  the  rather,  because  it  is  indisputable  that 
the  managers  of  the  Whitechapel  establishment  mosi 
thoroughly  feel  that  they  are  upon  their  honour  with  the 
customers  as  to  the  minutest  points  of  administration. 
But,  although  the  American  stoves  cannot  roast,  they 
can  surely  boil  one  kind  of  meat  as  well  as  another,  and 
need  not  always  circumscribe  their  boiling  talents  within 
the  limits  of  ham  and  beef.  The  most  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirer of  those  substantials  would  probably  not  object  to 
occasional  inconstancy  in  respect  of  pork  and  mutton  ; 
or,  especially  in  cold  weather,  to  a  little  innocent  trifling 
with  Irish  stews,  meat  pies,  and  toads  in  lioles.  Another 
drawback  on  the  Whitechapel  establishment  is  the  ab- 
sence of  beer.  Regarded  merely  as  a  question  oi  policy, 
it  is  very  impolitic,  as  having  a  tendency  to  send  the 
workingman  to  the  public-house,  where  gin  is  reported 
to  be  sold.  But  there  is  a  much  higher  ground  on  whicl^ 
this  absence  of  beer  is  objectionable.  It  expresses  its, 
trust  of  the  workingman.  It  is  a  fragment  of  that  old 
mantle  of  patronage  in  which  so  many  estimable  Thugs, 
so  darkly  wandering  up  and  down  the  moral  world  have 
sworn  to  muffle  him.  Good  beer  is  a  good  thing  for  him 
he  says,  and  he  likes  it  ;  the  Depot  could  give  it  him 
good,  and  he  now  gets  it  bad.  Why  does  the  Depot  not 
give  it  him  good  ?  Because  he  would  get  drunk.  Why 
does  the  Depot  not  let  him  have  a  pint  with  his  dinner, 
which  would  not  make  him  drunk  ?  Because  he  might 
have  had  another  pint,  or  another  two  pints,  before  he 
came.  Now  this  distrust  is  an  affront,  is  exceedingly  in- 
consistent  with  the  confidence  the  managers  express  in 
their  handbills,  and  is  a  timid  stopping-short  upon  the 
straight  highway.  It  is  unjust  and  unreasonable,  also. 
It  is  unjust,  because  it  punishes  the  sober  man  for  the 
vice  of  the  drunken  man.  It  is  unreasonable,  because 
any  one  at  all  experienced  in  such  things  knows  that  the 
drunken  workman  does  not  get  drunk  where  he  goes  id 
eat  and  drink,  but  where  he  goes  to  drink, — expressly  to 
drink.  To  suppose  that  the  workingman  cannot  state 
this  question  to  himself  quite  as  plainly  as  I  state  it  here 
is  to  suppose  that  he  is  a  baby,  and  again  to  tell  him,  in 
the  old  wearisome,  condescending,  patronizing  way,  that 
he  must  be  goody-poody,  and  do  as  he  is  toldy-poldy,  and 
not  be  a  manny-panny,  or  a  voter-poter,  but  fold  his 
handy-pandys,  and  be  a  childy-pildy. 

I  found,  from  the  accounts  of  the  Whitechapel  Self- 
Supporting  Cooking  Depot,  that  every  article  sold  in  it, 
even  at  the  prices  I  have  quoted,  yields  a  certain  small 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  499 


profit  \  Individual  speculators  are,  of  course,  already  in 
the  field,  and  are,  of  course,  already  appropriating  the 
name.  The  classes  for  whose  benefit  the  real  depots  are 
designed  will  distinguish  between  the  two  kinds  of  en- 
terprise. 


XXIV. 

Chatham  Dock-Yard. 

There  are  some  small  out-of-the-way  landing-places 

on  the  Thames  and  the  Med  way,  where  I  do  much  of 
my  summer  idling.  Running  water  is  favourable  to  day- 
dreams, and  a  strong  tidal  river  is  the  best  of  running 
water  for  mine.  I  like  to  watch  the  great  ships  standing 
out  to  sea  or  coming  home  richly  laden,  the  active  little 
steam-tugs  confidently  puffing  with  them  to  and  from 
the  sea  horizon,  the  fleet  of  barges  that  seem  to  havQ 
plucked  their  brown  and  russet  sails  from  the  ripe  trees 
in  the  landscape,  the  heavy  old  colliers,  light  in  ballast, 
floundering  down  before  the  tide,  the  light  screw  bark^ 
and  schooners  imperiously  holding  a  straight  course  whil^ 
the  others  patiently  tack  and  go  about,  the  yachts  with 
their  tiny  hulls  and  great  white  sheets  of  canvas,  the  lit- 
tle sailing  boats  bobbing  to  and  fro  on  their  errands  ol' 
pleasure  or  business,  and — as  it  is  the  nature  of  little 
pbople  to  do — making  a  prodigious  fuss  about  their 
small  affairs.  Watching  these  objects,  I  still  am  under 
no  obligation  to  think  about  them,  or  even  so  much  as  to 
see  them,  unless  it  perfectly  suits  my  humour.  As  little 
am  I  obliged  to  hear  the  plash  and  flop  of  the  tide,  the 
ripple  at  my  feet,  the  clinking  windlass  afar  off,  or  the 
humming  steamship  paddies  farther  away  yet.  These, 
Mth  the  creaking  little  jetty  on  which  I  sit,  and  the 
jaunt  high- water  marks  and  low- water  marks  in  the 
tnud,  and  the  broken  causeway,  and  the  broken  bank, 
and  the  broken  stakes  and  piles  leaning  forward  as  if 
they  were  vain  of  the  personal  appearance  and  looking 
for  their  reflection  in  the  water,  will  melt  into  any  train 
of  fancy.  Equally  adaptable  to  any  purpose  or  to  none 
are  the  pasturing  sheep  and  kine  upon  the  marshes,  the 
gulls  that  wheel  and  dip  around  me,  the  crows  (well  out 
of  gunshot)  going  home  from  the  rich  harvest-fields,  the 
heron  that  has  been  out  a-tishing,  and  looks  as  melau- 
choly,  up  there  in  the  sky,  as  if  it  hadn't  agreed  with 
him.  Everything  within  the  range  of  the  senses  will, 
by  the  aid  of  the  running  water,  lend  itself  to  everything 
beyond  that  range,  and  work  into  a  drowsy  whole,  not 
unlike  a  kind  of  tune,  but  for  which  there  is  no  exact 
definition. 


500 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


One  of  these  landing-places  is  near  an  old  fort  (T  can 
see  the  Nore  Light  from  it  with  my  pocket-glass),  from 
which  fort  mysteriously  emerges  a  boy  to  whom  I  am 
much  indebted  for  additions  to  my  scanty  stock  of  knowl- 
^dge.  He  is  a  young  boy,  with  an  intelligent  face  burnt 
to  a  dust  colour  by  the  summer  sun,  and  with  crisp  hair 
of  the  same  hue.  He  is  a  boy  in  whom  I  have  perceived 
nothing  incompatible  with  habits  of  studious  inquiry  and 
meditation,  unless  an  evanescent  black  eye  (I  was  deli- 
cate of  inquiring  how  oc-jasioned)  should  be  so  considered. 
To  him  am  I  indebted  for  ability  to  identify  a  Custom- 
House  boat  at  any  distance,  and  for  acquaintance  with 
all  the  forms  and  ceremonies  observed  by  a  homeward- 
bound  Indiaman  coming  up  the  river,  when  the  Custom- 
House  officers  go  aboard  her.  But  for  him,  I  might 
never  have  heard  of  the  dumb  ague,"  respecting  which 
malady  I  am  now  learned.  Had  I  never^  sat  at  his  feet, 
I  might  have  finished  my  mortal  career  and  never  known 
that  when  I  see  a  white  horse  on  a  barge  it  is  a  time  barge. 
For  precious  secrets  in  reference  to  beer  am  I  likewise 
beholden  to  him,  involving  warning  against  the  beer  of 
a  certain  establishment,  by  reason  of  its  having  turned 
sour  through  failure  in  point  of  demand  ;  though  my 
young  sage  is  not  of  opinion  that  similar  deterioration 
has  befallen  the  ale.  He  has  also  enlightened  me  touch- 
ing the  mushrooms  of  the  marshes,  and  has  gently  re- 
proved my  ignorance  in  having  supposed  them  to  be  im- 
pregnated with  salt.  His  manner  of  imparting  informa- 
tion is  thoughtful,  and  appropriate  to  the  scene.  As  he 
reclines  beside  me,  he  pitches  into  the  river  a  little  stone, 
6r  piece  of  grit,  and  then  delivers  himself  oracularly,  as 
though  he  spoke  out  of  the  centre  of  the  spreading  circle 
that  it  makes  in  the  water.  He  never  improves  my  mind 
without  observing  this  formula. 

With  the  wise  boy — whom  I  know  by  no  other  name 
than  Spirit  of  the  Fort — I  recently  consorted  on  a  breezy 
day  when  the  river  leaped  about  us  and  was  full  of  life. 
I  had  seen  the  sheaved  corn  carrying  in  the  golden  fields 
as  I  came  down  to  the  river  ;  and  the  rosy  farmer,  watch- 
ing his  labouring-men  in  the  saddle  on  his  cob,  had  told 
me  how  he  had  reaped  his  two  hundred  and  sixty  acres 
of  long-strawed  corn  last  week,  and  how  a  better  week's 
work  he  had  never  done  in  all  his  days.  Peace  and 
abundance  were  on  the  country-side  in  beautiful  forms 
and  beautiful  colours,  and  the  harvest  seemed  even  to  be 
sailing  out  to  grace  the  never- reaped  sea  in  the  yellow- 
laden  barges  that  mellowed  the  distance. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  the  Spirit  of  the  Fort  di- 
recting his  remarks  to  a  certain  floating  iron  battery 
lately  lying  in  that  reach  of  the  river,  enriched  my  mind 
with  his  opinions  on  naval  architecture,  and  informed 


THE  UN(M)MMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


501 


me  that  he  would  like  toTbe  an  engineer.  I  found  him 
up  to  everything  that  is  done  in  the  contracting  line  by 
Messrs.  Peto  and  Brassey, — cunning  in  the  orticle  of  con- 
Crete,  —mellow  in  the  matter  of  iron, — great  on  the  sub- 
ject of  gunnery.  When  he  spoke  of  pile-driving  and 
'sluice-making,  be  left  me  not  a  leg  to  stand  on  ;  and  I 
can  never  sufficiently  acknowledge  his  forbearance  with 
me  in  my  disabled  state.  While  he  thus  discoursed,  he 
several  times  directed  his  eyes  to  one  distant  quarter  of 
the  landscape,  and  spoke  with  vague  mysterious  awe  of 
the  Yard."  Pondering  his  lessons  after  we  had  parted, 
I  bethought  me  that  the  Yard  v/as  one  of  our  large  pub- 
lic Dock- Yards,  and  that  it  lay  hidden  among  the  crops 
down  in  the  dip  behind  the  windmills,  as  if  it  modestly 
kept  itself  out  of  view  in  peaceful  times,  and  sought  to 
trouble  no  man.  Taken  with  this  modesty  on  the  part 
of  the  Yard,  I  resolved  to  improve  the  Yard's  acquaint- 
ance. 

My  good  opinion  of  the  Yard's  retiring  character  was 
not  dashed  by  nearer  approach.  It  resounded  with  the 
noise  of  hammers  beating  upon  iron  ;  and  the  great  sheds 
or  slips  under  which  the  mighty  men-of-war  are  built 
loomed  business-like  when  contemplated  from  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  river.  For  all  that,  however,  the  Yard 
made  no  display,  but  kept  itself  snug  under  hillsides 
of  cornfields,  hop  gardens,  and  orchards ;  its  great 
chimneys  smoking  with  a  quiet — almost  a  lazy — air,  like 
giants  smoking  tobacco  ;  and  the  great  Shears  moored 
off  it,  looking  meekly  and  inoffensively  out  of  proportion, 
like  a  Giraffe  of  the  machinery  creation.  The  store  of 
cannon  on  the  neighbouring  gun- wharf  had  an  innocent, 
toy-like  appearance,  and  the  one  red-coated  sentry  on 
duty  over  them  was  a  mere  toy-figure,  with  a  clock-work 
movement.  As  the  hot  sunlight  sparkled  on  him,  he 
might  have  passed  for  the  identical  little  man  who  had 
the  little  gun,  and  whose  bullets  they  were  made  of  lead, 
lead,  lead. 

Crossing  the  river  and  landing  at  the  Stairs,  where  a 
drift  of  chips  and  weed  had  been  trying  to  land  before 
me,  and  had  not  succeeded,  but  had  got  into  a  corner 
instead,  I  found  the  very  street  posts  to  be  cannon,  and 
the  architectural  ornaments  to  be  shells.  And  so  I  came 
to  the  Yard,  which  was  shut  up  tight  and  strong  with 
great  folded  gates,  like  an  enormous  patent  safe.  These 
gates  devouring  me,  I  became  digested  into  the  Yard ; 
and  it  had,  at  first,  a  clean-swept,  holiday  air,  as  if  it 
had  given  over  work  until  next  war-time.  Though  in- 
deed a  quantity  of  hemp  for  rope  was  tumbling  out  of 
store-houses,  even  there,  which  would  hardly  be  lying 
like  so  much  hay  on  the  white  stones  if  the  Yard  were 
as  placid  as  it  pretended. 


502 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Ding,  Clash,  Dong,  Bang,  Boom,  Rattle,  Clash,  Bang, 
Clink,  Bang,  Dong,  Bang,  Clatter,  Bang,  Bang,  BANG  1 
What  on  earth  is  this  I  This  is,  or  soon  will  be,  the 
Achilles,  iron  armour-plated  ship.  Twelve  hundred 
men  are  working  at  her  now  ;  twelve  hundred  men 
wprking  on  stages  over  her  sides,  over  her  bows,  over 
her  stern,  under  her  keel,  between  her  decks,  down  in 
her  hold,  within  her  and  without,  crawling  and  creep- 
ing into  the  finest  curves  of  her  lines  wherever  it  is  pos*. 
sible  for  men  to  twist.  Twelve  hundred  hammerers, 
measurers,  calkers,  armourers,  forgers,  smiths,  ship- 
wrights ;  twelve  hundred  dingers,  dashers,  dongers, 
rattlers,  clinkers,  bangers,  bangers,  bangers  1  Yet  all 
this  stupendous  uproar  around  the  rising  Achilles  is  as 
nothing  to  the  reverberations  with  whicia  the  perfected 
Achilles  shall  resound  upon  the  dreadful  day  when  the 
full  work  is  in  hand  for  which  this  is  but  note  of  prepa- 
ration,— the  day  when  the  scuppers  that  are  now  fitting 
like  great,  dry,  thirsty  conduit- pipes  shall  run  red.  All 
these  busy  figures  between  decks,  dimly  seen  bending 
at  their  work  in  smoke  and  fire,  are  as  nothing  to  the 
figures  that  shall  do  work  here  of  another  kind  in  smoke 
and  fire  that  day.  These  steam-worked  engines  along- 
side, helping  the  ship  by  travelling  to  and  fro,  and 
wafting  tons  of  iron  plates  about,  as  though  they  were 
so  many  leaves  of  trees,  would  be  rent  iimb  from  limb 
if  they  stood  by  her  for  a  minute  then.  To  think  that 
this  Achilles,  monstrous  compound  of  iron  tank  and 
oaken  chest,  can  ever  swim  or  roll !  To  think  that  any 
force  of  wind  and  wave  could  ever  break  her  I  To  think 
that  wherever  I  see  a  glowing  red-hot  iron  point  thrust 
out  of  her  side  from  within, — as  I  do  now,  there,  and  there, 
and  there  ! — and  two  watching  men  on  a  stage  without, 
with  bared  arms  and  sledge-hammers,  strike  at  it  fierce- 
ly, and  repeat  their  blows  until  it  is  black  and  flat,  I  see 
a  r^'^et  being  driven  home,  of  which  there  are  many  in 
every  iron  plate,  and  thousands  upon  thousands  in  the 
ship  !  To  think  that  the  difficulty  I  experience  in  ap 
^reciating  the  ship's  size  when  I  am  on  board  arises  from 
her  being  a  series  of  iron  tanks  and  oaken  chests :  so 
that  internally  she  is  ever  finishing  and  ever  beginning, 
and  half  of  her  might  be  smashed,  and  yet  the  remaining 
half  suffice  and  be  sound.  Then,  to  go  over  the  side 
again  and  down  among  the  ooze  and  wet  to  the  bottom 
of  the  dock,  in  the  depths  of  the  subterranean  forest  of 
dog-shores  and  stays  that  hold  her  up,  and  to  see  the 
immense  mass  bulging  out  against  the  upper  light,  and 
tapering  down  towards  me,  is,  with  great  pains  and 
much  clambering,  to  arrive  at  an  impossibility  of  realiz- 
ing that  this  is  a  ship  at  all,  and  to  become  possessed  by 
the  fancy  that  it  is  an  enormous  immovable  edifice  set 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLEll. 


503 


up  in  an  ancient  ampliitlieatre  (say  that  at  Verona),  and 
almost  filling  it  I  Yet  what  would  even  these  things  be 
without  the  tributary  workshops  and  their  mechanical 
powers  for  piercing  the  iron  plates — four  inches  and  a 
half  thick — for  rivets,  shaping  them  under  hydraulic 
pressure  to  the  finest  tapering  turns  of  the  ship^s  lines, 
and  paring  them  away,  with  knives  shaped  like  the 
beaks  of  strong  and  cruel  birds,  to  the  nicest  require- 
ments of  the  design  !  These  machines  of  tremendous 
force,  so  easily  directed  by  one  attentive  face  and  presid- 
ing hand,  seem  to  me  to  have  in  them  something  of  the 
refiring  character  of  the  Yard.  ''Obedient  monster, 
please  to  bite  this  mass  of  iron  through  and  through,  at 
equal  distances,  where  these  regular  chalkmarks  are,  all 
around."  Monster  looks  at  its  work,  and,  lifting  its 
ponderous  head,  replies:  **I  don't  particularly  want  to 
do  it;  but  if  it  must  be  done— I "  The  solid  metal 
wriggles  out,  hot  from  the  monster's  crunching  tooth, 
and  it  is  done.  ''Dutiful  monster,  observe  this  other 
mass  of  iron.  It  is  required  to  be  pared  away,  according 
to  this  delicately  lessening  and  arbitrary  line,  which 
please  to  look  at/'  Monster  (who  has  been  in  a  revery) 
brings  down  its  blunt  head,  and,  much  in  the  manner  of 
Doctor  Johnson,  closely  looks  along  the  line, — very 
closely,  being  somewhat  near-sighted.  "I  don't  partic- 
ularly want  to  do  it ;  but  if  it  must  be  done — ! "  Mon- 
ster takes  another  near-sighted  look,  takes  aim,  and  the 
tortured  piece  writhes  ofE,  and  falls,  a  hot,  tight-twisted 
snake,  among  the  ashes.  The  making  of  the  rivets,  is 
merely  a  pretty  round  game,  played  by  a  man  and  a  boy 
who  put  red-hot  barley-sugar  in  a  Pope  Joan  board,  and 
immediately  rivets  fall  out  of  window  ;  but  the  tone  of 
the  great  machines  is  the  tone  of  the  great  Yard  and  the 
great  country  :  "  We  don't  particularly  want  to  do  it  ; 
but  if  it  must  be  done —  ! " 

How  such  a  prodigious  mass  as  the  Achilles  can  ever 
be  held  by  such  comparatively  little  anchors  as  those  in- 
tended for  her,  and  lying  near  her  here,  is  a  mystery  of 
seamanship  which  I  will  refer  to  the  wise  boy.  For  my 
own  part,  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  tethering  an 
elephant  to  a  tent-peg,  or  the  larger  hippopotamus  in  the 
Zoological  Gardens  to  my  shirt-pin.  Yonder  in  the  river, 
alongside  a  hulk,  lie  two  of  this  ship's  hollow  iron  masts. 
They  are  large  enough  for  the  eye,  I  find,  and  so  are  all 
her  other  appliances.  I  wonder  why  only  her  anchors 
look  small. 

I  have  no  present  time  to  think  about  it,  for  I  am  go- 
ing to  see  the  workshops  where  they  make  all  the  oars 
used  in  the  British  Navy.  A  pretty  large  pile  of  build- 
ing, I  opine,  and  a  pretty  long  job  f  As  to  the  building, 
I  am  soon  disappointed,  because  the  work  is  all  done  in 


50i 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


one  loft.  And  as  to  a  long  job? — what  is  this?  Two 
rather  large  mangles,  with  a  swarm  of  butterflies  hover^ 
ing  over  them  ?  What  can  there  be  in  the  mangles  that 
attracts  butterflies  ? 

Drawing  nearer,  I  discern  that  these  are  not  mangles, 
but  intricate  machines,  set  with  knives  and  saws  and 
planes,  which  cut  smooth  and  straight  here,  and  slant- 
wise there,  and  now  cut  such  a  depth,  and  now  miss  cut- 
ting  altogether,  according  to  the  predestined  require- 
ments of  the  pieces  of  wood  that  are  pushed  on  below 
them, — each  of  which  pieces  is  to  be  an  oar,  and  is  rough- 
ly adapted  to  that  purpose  before  it  takes  its  final  leave 
of  far-off  forests,  and  sails  for  England.  Likewise  I 
discern  that  the  butterflies  are  not  true  butterflies,  but 
Vooden  shavings,  which,  being  spirited  up  from  the 
wood  by  the  violence  of  the  macliinery,  and  kept  in  rapid 
and  not  equal  movement  by  the  impulse  of  its  rotation 
on  the  air,  flutter  and  play,  and  rise  a»nd  fall,  and  con- 
duct themselves  as  like  butterflies  as  heart  could  wish. 
Suddenly  the  noise  and  motion  cease,  and  the  butterflies 
drop  dead.  An  oar  has  been  made  since  I  came  in,  want- 
ing the  shaped  handle.  As  quickly  as  I  can  follow  it 
with  my  eye  and  thought,  the  same  oar  is  carried  to  a 
turning-lathe.  A  whirl  and  a  nick  !  Handle  made.  Oar 
finished. 

The  exquisite  beauty  and  efficiency  of  this  machinery 
need  no  illustration,  but  happen  to  have  a  pointed  illus- 
tration to-day.  A  pair  of  mars  of  unusual  size  chance  to 
be  wanted  for  a  special  purpose,  and  they  have  to  be 
made  by  hand.  Side  by  side  wiih  the  subtle  and  facile 
machine,  and  side  by  s^de  with  the  fast-growing  pile  of 
oars  on  the  floor,  a  man  shapes  out  these  special  oars 
with  an  axe.  Attended  by  no  butterflies,  and  chipping 
and  dinting  by  comparison  as  leisurely  as  if  be  were  a 
labouring  Pagan  getting  them  ready  against  his  decease, 
at  three-score  and  ten,  to  take  with  him  as  a  present  to 
Charon  for  his  boat,  the  man  (aged  about  thirty)  plies  his 
task.  The  machine  would  make  a  regulation  oar  while 
the  man  wipes  his  forehead.  The  man  might  be  buried 
in  a  mound  made  of  the  strips  of  thin,  broad,  woodeu 
ribbon  torn  from  the  wood  whirled  into  oars  as  the  min- 
utes  fall  from  the  clock,  before  he  had  done  a  forenoon's 
work  with  his  axe. 

Passing  from  this  wonderful  sight  to  the  ships  again, 
— for  my  heart,  as  to  the  Yard,  is  where  the  ships  are, — 
I  notice  certain  unfinished  wooden  walls  left  seasoning 
on  the  stocks,  pending  the  solution  of  the  merits  of  the 
wood  and  iron  question,  and  having  an  air  of  biding  their 
time  with  surly  confidence.  The  names  of  these  worthies 
are  set  up  beside  them,  together  with  their  capacity  in 
guns, — a  custom  highly  conducive  to  ease  and  satisfac" 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAI.  TRAVRLLEU. 

tion  in  social  intercourse  if  it  could  be  adapted  to  man- 
kind.  By  a  plank  more  gracefully  pendulous  than  sub 
stantial,  I  make  bold  to  go  aboard  a  transport  ship  (iron 
screw)  just  sent  in  from  the  contractor's  yard  to  be  in- 
spected and  passed.  She  is  a  very  gratifying  experience, 
in  the  simplicity  and  humanity  of  her  arrangements  for 
troops,  in  her  provision  for  light  and  air  and  cleanliness, 
and  in  her  care  for  women  and  children.  It  occurs  to 
me,  as  I  explore  her,  that  I  would  require  a  handsome 
sum  of  money  to  go  aboard  her  at  midnight  by  the  Dock- 
Yard  bell,  and  stay  aboard  alone  till  morning  ;  for  surely 
she  must  be  haunted  by  a  crowd  of  ghosts  as  obstinate 
old  martinets,  mournfully  flapping  their  cherubic  epau- 
lets over  the  changed  times.  Though  still  we  may  learn, 
from  the  ascounding  ways  and  means  in  cur  Yards  now, 
more  highly  than  ever  to  respect  the  forefathers  who  got 
to  sea,  and  fought  the  sea,  and  held  the  sea,  without 
them.  This  remembrance  putting  me  in  the  best  of  tem- 
pers with  an  old  hulk,  very  green  as  to  her  copper,  and 
generally  dim  and  patched,  I  pull  off  my  hat  to  her. 
Which  salutation,  a  callow  and  downy-faced  young  oflS- 
cer  of  Engineers,  going  by  at  the  moment,  perceiving, 
appropriates, — and  to  which  he  is  most  heartily  welcome, 
I  am  sure. 

Having  been  torn  to  pieces  (in  imagination)  by  the 
steam  circular  saws,  perpendicular  saws,  horizontal 
saws,  and  saws  of  eccentric  action,  I  come  to  the  saun^ 
tering  part  of  my  expedition,  and  consequently  to  the 
core  of  my  Uncommercial  pursuits. 

Everywhere,  as  I  saunter  up  and  down  the  Yard,  1 
meet  with  tokens  of  its  q^iiet  and  retiring  character. 
There  is  a  gravity  upon  its  red -brick  offices  and  houses, 
a  staid  pretence  of  having  nothing  worth  mentioning  to 
do,  an  avoidance  of  display,  which  I  never  saw  out  of 
England.  The  white  stones  of  the  pavement  present 
no  other  trace  of  Achilles  and  his  twelve  hundred  bang- 
ing men  (not  one  of  whom  strikes  an  attitude)  than  a 
few  occasional  echoes.  But  for  a  whisper  in  the  air  sug- 
gestive of  sawdust  and  shavings,  the  oar-making  and 
the  saws  of  many  movements  might  be  miles  away, 
Down  below  here  is  the  great  reservoir  of  water  where 
timber  is  steeped  in  various  temperatures,  as  a  part  of 
its  seasoning  process.  Above  it,  on  a  tram-road  sup- 
ported by  pillars,  is  a  Chinese  Enchanter's  Car,  which 
fishes  the  logs  up  when  sufficiently  steeped,  and  rolls 
smoothly  away  with  them  to  stack  them.  When  I  was 
a  child  (the  Yard  being  then  familiar  to  me),  I  used  to 
think  that  I  should  like  to  play  at  Chinese  Enchanter; 
and  to  have  that  apparatus  placed  at  my  disposal  for 
the  purpose  by  a  beneficent  country.  I  still  think  that 
I  should  rather  like  to  try  the  efl^ect  of  writing  a  book 


606  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  it.  Its  retirement  is  complete,  and  to  go  gliding  to 
and  fro  among  the  stacks  of  timber  would  be  a  conven- 
ient kind  of  travelling  in  foreign  countries, — among  the 
forests  of  North  America,  the  sodden  Honduras  swamps, 
the  dark  pine  woods,  the  Norwegian  frosts,  and  the 
tropical  heats,  rainy  seasons,  and  thunder-storms.  The 
costly  store  of  timber  is  stacked  and  stowed  away  in 
sequestered  places,  with  the  pervading  avoidance  of 
flourish  or  effect.  It  makes  as  little  of  itself  as  possible, 
and  calls  to  no  one,  Come  and  look  at  me  I  "  And  yet 
it  is  picked  out  from  the  trees  of  the  world  ;  picked  out 
for  length,  picked  out  for  breadth,  picked  out  for  straight- 
ness,  picked  out  for  crookedness,  chosen  with  an  eye  to 
every  need  of  ship  and  boat.  Strangely  twisted  pieces 
lie  about,  precious  in  the  sight  of  shipwrights.  Saunter- 
ing through  these  groves,  I  come  upon  an  open  glade 
where  workmen  are  examining  some  timber  recently 
delivered.  Quite  a  pastoral  scene,  with  a  background 
of  river  and  windmill  I  And  no  more  like  War  than  the 
American  States  are  at  present  like  an  Union. 

Sauntering  among  the  rope -making,  I  am  spun  into  a 
state  of  blissful  indolence,  wherein  my  rope  of  life  seems 
to  be  so  untwisted  by  the  process  as  that  I  can  see  back 
to  very  early  days  indeed,  when  my  bad  dreams — they 
were  frightful,  though  my  more  mature  understanding 
has  never  made  out  why — were  of  an  interminable  sort 
of  rope-making,  with  long  minute  filaments  for  strands, 
which,  when  they  were  spun  home  together  close  to  my 
eyes,  occasioned  screaming.  Next  I  walk  among  the 
quiet  lots  of  stores, — of  sails,  spars,  rigging,  ships'  boats, 
— determined  to  believe  that  somebody  in  authority  wears 
a  girdle,  and  bends  beneath  the  weight  of  a  massive 
bunch  of  keys  like  Blue-Beard,  and  opens  such  a  door. 
Impassive  as  the  long  lofts  look,  let  the  electric  battery 
send  down  the  word,  and  the  shutters  and  doors  shall 
fly  open,  and  such  a  fleet  of  armed  ships,  under  steam 
and  under  sail,  shall  burst  forth  as  will  charge  the  old 
Med  way, — where  the  merry  Stuart  let  the  Dutch  come, 
while  his  not  so  merry  sailors  starved  in  the  streets, — 
with  something  worth  looking  at  to  carry  to  the  sea. 
Thus  I  idle  round  to  the  Medway  again,  where  it  is  now 
flood-tide  ;  and  I  find  the  river  evincing  a  strong  solici- 
tude to  force  a  way  into  the  dry-dock  where  Achilles  is 
waited  on  by  the  twelve  hundred  bangers,  with  intent 
to  bear  the  whole  away  before  they  are  ready. 

To  the  last,  the  Yard  puts  a  quiet  face  upon  it ;  for  I 
make  my  v/ay  to  the  gates  through  a  little  quiet  grove 
of  trees,  shading  the  quaintest  of  Dutch  landing-places, 
where  the  leaf-speckled  shadow  of  a  shipwright  just 
passing  away  at  the  farther  end  might  be  the  shadow  of 
Russian  Peter  himself.    So  the  doors  of  the  great  patent 


THE  LNCOMMEKUIAL  TRAVELLEK. 


507 


safe  at  last  close  upon  me,  and  I  take  boat  again, — some- 
how thinking,  as  the  oars  dip,  of  braggart  Pistol  and  his 
brood,  and  of  the  quiet  monsters  of  the  Yard,  with  their 
We  don't  particularly  want  to  do  it ;  but  if  it  must  be 
done —  1 "  Scrunch. 


XXV. 

In  the  FT'emh-Flemish  Country, 

It  is  neither  a  bold  nor  a  diversified  country,*'  said  I 
;r.  myself,  this  country  which  is  three-quarters  Flem- 
ish, and  a  quarter  French  ;  yet  it  has  its  attractions  too. 
Though  great  lines  of  railway  traverse  it,  the  trains 
leave  it  behind,  and  go  puffing  off  to  Paris  and  the  South, 
to  Belgium  and  Germany,  to  the  Northern  Sea-coast  of 
France,  and  to  England,  and  merely  smoke  it  a  little  in 
passing.  Then  I  don't  know  it,  and  that  is  a  good  reason 
for  being  here  ;  and  I  can't  pronounce  half  the  long 
queer  names  I  see  in'?'?ribed  over  the  shops,  and  that  is 
another  good  reason  for  being  here,  since  I  surely  ought 
to  learn  how."  In  short,  I  was  *'here,"  and  I  wanted 
an  excuse  for  not  going  away  from  here,  and  I  made  it 
to  my  satisfaction,  and  stayed  here. 

"Wtat  part  in  my  decision  was  borne  by  Monsieur  P. 
Jalcy  is  of  no  moment,  though  I  own  to  encountering 
that  gentleman's  name  on  a  red  bill  on  the  wall  before  I 
toade  up  my  mind.  Monsieur  P.  Salcy,  par  permissioD 
de  M.  le  Maire,"  had  established  his  theatre  in  the  white- 
washed Hotel  de  Ville,  on  the  steps  of  which  illustrious 
edifice  I  stood.  And  Monsieur  P.  Salcy,  privileged  direc- 
tor of  such  theatre,  situate  in  the  first  theatrical 
arrondissement  of  the  department  of  the  North,"  invited 
French-Flemish  mankind  to  come  and  partake  of  the  in- 
tellectual banquet  provided  by  his  family  of  dramatic 
artists,  fifteen  subjects  in  number.  *'La  Famille  P. 
Salcy,  composee  d'artistes  dramatiques,  au  nombre  de  15 
sujets." 

Neither  a  bold  nor  a  diversified  country,  I  say  again, 
^nd  withal  an  untidy  country,  but  pleasant  enough  tc 
Hde  in  when  the  paved  roads  over  the  flats  and  through 
the' hollows  are  not  too  deep  in  black  mud.  A  country 
so  sparely  inhabited,  that  I  wonder  where  the  peasants 
who  till  and  sow  and  reep  the  ground  can  possibly 
dwell,  and  also  by  what  invisible  balloons  they  are  con- 
veyed from  their  distant  homes  into  the  fields  at  sun- 
rise and  back  again  at  sunset.  The  occasional  few  poor 
cottages  and  farms  in  this  region  surely  cannot  afiord' 
shelter  to  the  numbers  necessary  to  the  cultivation ;  albeit 
the  work  is  done  so  very  deliberately,  that  on  one  long 


508  WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


harvest  day  I  have  seen,  in  twelve  miles,  about  twice  as 
many  men  and  women  (all  told)  reaping  and  binding. 
Yet  have  I  seen  more  cattle,  more  sheep,  more  pigs,  and 
all  in  better  case,  than  where  there  is  purer  French 
spoken  ;  and  also  better  ricks, — round,  swelling,  peg-top 
ricks,  well  thatched, — not  a  shapeless  brown  heap,  like 
the  toast  out  of  a  Giant's  toast-and-water  pinned  to  the 
earth  with  one  of  tht  skewers  out  of  his  kitchen.  A  good 
custom  they  have  about  here,  likewise,  of  prolonging  the 
sloping  tiled  roof  of  farm-house  or  cottage  so  that  it 
overhangs  three  or  four  feet,  carrying  off  the  wet,  and 
making  a  good  drying-place  wherein  to  hang  up  herbs, 
or  implements,  or  what  not.  A  better  custom  than  the 
popular  one  of  keeping  the  refuse  heap  and  puddle  close 
before  the  house  door ;  which  although  I  paint  my  dwell, 
ing  never  so  brightly  blue  (and  it  cannot  be  too  blue  for 
me,  hereabouts),  will  bring  fever  inside  my  door.  Won- 
derful poultry  of  the  French -Flemish  country  why  take 
the  trouble  to  he  poultry  '?  Why  not  stop  short  at  eggs 
in  the  rising  generation,  and  die  out,  and  have  done  with 
it?  Parents  of  chickens  have  I  seen  this  day,  followed 
by  their  wretched  young  families  scratching  nothing 
out  of  the  mud  with  an  air, — tottering  about  on  legs  so 
scraggy  and  weak  that  the  valiant  word  drumsticks  " 
becomes  a  mockery  when  applied  to  them,  and  the  crow 
of  the  lord  and  master  has  been  a  mere  dejected  case  of 
croup.  Carts  have  I  seen,  and  other  agricultural  instru- 
ments, unwieldy,  dislocated,  monstrous.  Poplar-trees  by 
the  thousand  fringe  the  fields,  and  fringe  the  end  of  the 
fiat  landscape,  so  that  I  feel,  looking  straight  on  before 
me,  as  if,  when  1  pass  the  extremest  mnge  on  the  lowhori, 
zon,  I  shall  tumble  over  into  space.  Little  whitewashed 
black  holes  of  chapels,  with  barred  doors,  and  Flemish  in> 
scriptions,  abound  at  roadside  corners,  and  often  they  are 
garnished  with  a  sheaf  of  wooden  crosses,  like  children's 
swords  ;  or,  in  their  default,  some  hollow  old  tree,  witli 
a  saint  roosting  in  it,  is  similarly  decorated,  or  a  pole 
with  a  very  diminutive  saint  enshrined  aloft  in  a  sort  of 
sacred  pigeon -house.  Not  that  we  are  deficient  in  such 
decoration  in  the  town  here,  for  over  at  the  church  yonder, 
outside  the  building,  is  a  scenic  representation  of  the 
Crucifixion,  built  up  with  old  bricks  and  stones,  and 
made  out  with  painted  canvas  and  wooden  figures ; 
the  whole  surmounting  the  dusty  skull  of  some  holy 
personage  (perhaps)  shut  up  behind  a  little  ashy  iron 
gate,  as  if  it  were  originaPy  put  there  to  be  cooked,  and 
the  fire  had  long  gone  out.  A  windmilly  country  this, 
though  the  windmills  are  so  damp  and  rickety,  that  they 
nearly  knock  themselves  off  their  legs  at  every  turn  of 
their  sails,  and  creak  in  loud  complaint.  A  weaving 
country,  too  ;  for  in  the  wayside  cottag-es  the  loom  ofoes 


TUB  UNCOMMEKCIAL  TKAVELLEK. 


509 


wearily, — rattle  and  click,  rattle  and  click, — and,  looking 
in,  I  see  the  poor  weaving  peasant,  man  or  woman,  bend- 
ing at  the  work,  while  the  child,  working  too,  turns  a 
little  hand-wheel  put  upon  the  ground  to  suit  its  height. 
An  unconscionable  monster,  the  loom,  in  a  small  dwell- 
ing, asserting  himself  ungenerously  as  the  bread -wiimerr 
straddling  over  the  children's  straw  beds,  cramping  the 
family  in  space  and  air,  and  making  himself  generally 
objectionable  and  tyrannical.  He  is  tributary,  too,  to 
ugly  mills  and  factories  and  bleaching-grounds,  rising 
out  of  the  sluiced  fields  in  an  abrupt,  bare  way,  disdain- 
ing, like  himself,  to  be  ornamental  or  accommodating. 
Surrounded  by  these  things,  here  I  stood  on  the  steps  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  persuaded  to  remain  by  the  P.  Salcy 
family,  fifteen  dramatic  subjects  strong. 

There  was  a  Fair  besides.  The  double  persuasion  be- 
ing irresistible,  and  my  sponge  being  left  behind  at  the 
last  Hotel,  I  made  the  tour  of  the  little  town  to  buy 
another.  In  the  small  sunny  shops — mercers',  opticians', 
and  druggist-grocers',  with  here  and  there  an  emporium 
of  religious  images — the  gravest  of  old  spectacled  Flem- 
ish husbands  and  wives  sat  contemplating  one  another 
across  bare  counters,  while  the  wasps,  who  seemed  to 
have  taken  military  possession  of  the  town,  and  to  have 
placed  it  under  wasp-martial  law,  executed  warlike  ma- 
noeuvres in  the  windows.  Other  shops  the  wasps  had 
entirely  to  themselves,  and  nobody  cared  and  nobody 
came  when  I  beat  with  a  five-franc  piece  upon  the  board 
of  custom.  What  I  sought  was  no  more  to  be  found 
than  if  I  had  sought  a  nugget  of  Californian  gold  ;  so  I 
went,  spongeless,  to  pass  the  evening  with  the  Family 
P.  Salcy. 

The  members  of  the  Family  P.  Salcy  were  so  fat  and 
so  like  one  another — fathers,  mothers,  sisters,  brothers, 
uncles,  and  aunts — that  I  think  the  local  audience  were 
much  confused  about  the  plot  of  the  piece  under  rep- 
resentation, and  to  the  last  expected  that  everybody 
Inust  turn  out  to  be  the  long-lost  relative  of  everybody 
else.  The  Theatre  was  established  on  the  top  story  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  and  was  approached  by  a  long  bare  stair 
case,  whereon,  in  an  airy  situation,  one  of  the  P.  Sale  v 
Family — a  stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a  bel  l 
— took  the  money.  This  occasioned  the  greatest  excite- 
ment of  the  evening ;  for  no  sooner  did  the  curtain  rise 
on  the  introductory  Vaudeville,  and  reveal  in  the  person 
of  the  young  lover  (singing  a  very  short  song  with  his 
eyebrows)  apparently  the  very  same  identical  stout 
gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a  belt,  than  every- 
body rushed  out  to  the  paying-place  to  ascertain  whether 
he  could  possibly  have  put  on  that  dress-coat,  that  clear 
Cpmplexion,  and  those  arched  black  vocal  eyebrows,  in 


510 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


SO  sbort  a  space  of  time,  ft  then  became  manifest  that 
this  was  another  stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed 
by  a  belt ;  to  whom,  before  the  spectators  had  recovered 
their  presence  of  mind,  entered  a  third  stout  gentleman 
imperfectly  repressed  by  a  belt,  exactly  like  him.  These 
two  ''subjects,"  making,  with  the  money-taker,  three  of 
the  announced  fifteen,  fell  into  conversation  touching  a 
charming  young  widow ;  who,  presently  appearing,  prov- 
ed to  be  a  stout  lady  altogether  irrepressible  by  any 
means, — quite  a  parallel  case  to  the  American  Negro, — 
fourth  of  the  fifteen  subjects,  and  sister  of  the  fifth,  who 
presided  over  the  check  department.  In  good  time  the 
whole  of  the  fifteen  subjects  were  dramatically  presented, 
and  we  had  the  inevitable  Ma  Mere,  Ma  Mere  I  and  also 
the  inevitable  malediction  d'un  pere  and  likewise  the 
inevitable  Marquis,  and  also  the  inevitable  provincial 
young  man,  weak-minded  but  faithful,  who  followed 
Julie  to  Paris,  and  cried  and  laughed  and  choked  all  at 
once.  The  story  was  wrought  out  with  the  help  of  a 
virtuous  spinning-wheel  in  the  beginning,  a  vicious  set 
of  diamonds  in  the  middle,  and  a  rheumatic  blessing 
(which  arrived  by  post)  from  Ma  Mere  towards  the  end  ; 
the  whole  resulting  in  a  small  sword  in  the  body  of  one 
of  the  stout  gentlemen  imperfectly  repressed  by  a  belt, 
fifty  thousand  francs  per  annum  and  a  decoration  to  the 
other  stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a  belt, 
and  an  assurance  from  everybody  to  the  provincial  young 
man,  that,  if  he  were  not  supremely  happy, — which  he 
seemed  to  have  no  reason  whatever  for  being, — he  ought 
to  be.  This  afforded  him  a  final  opportunity  of  crying 
and  laughing  and  choking  all  at  once,  and  sent  the 
audience  home  sentimentally  delighted.  Audience  more 
attentive  or  better  behaved  there  could  not  possibly  be, 
though  the  places  of  second  rank  in  the  Theatre  of  the 
Family  P.  Salcy  were  sixpence  each  in  English  money, 
and  the  places  of  first  rank  a  shilling.  How  the  fifteen 
pubiects  ever  got  so  fat  upon  it,  the  kind  Heavens  know, 
#What  gorgeous  china  figures  of  knights  and  ladies, 
gilded  till  they  gleamed  again,  I  might  have  bought  at 
the  Fair  for  the  garniture  of  my  home,  if  I  had  been  a 
French-Flemish  peasant,  and  had  had  the  money.  What 
shining  coffee-cups  and  sauct^rs  I  might  have  won  at  the 
turn-tables,  if  I  had  had  the  luck  !  Ravishing  perfumery 
also,  and  sweetmeats,  I  might  have  speculated  in,  or  I 
might  have  fired  for  prizes  at  a  multitude  of  little  dolls  in 
niches,  and  might  have  hit  the  doll  of  dolls,  and  won  francs 
and  fame.  Or,  being  a  French-Flemish  youth,  I  might 
have  been  drawn  in  a  hand-cart  by  my  compeers  to  tilt 
for  municipal  rewards  at  the  water-quintain  ;  which,  un- 
less I  sent  my  lance  clean  through  the  ring,  emptied  a 
full  bucket  over  me,  to  fend  off  which,  the  competitors 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  511 


wore  grotesque  old  scarecrow  hats.  Or,  being  FreDcli- 
Flemish  man  or  woman,  boy  or  girl,  I  might  have  circled 
all  night  on  my  hobby-horse,  in  a  stately  cavalcade  of 
hobby  horses,  four  abreast,  interspersed  with  triumphal 
cars,  going  round  and  round  and  round  and  round,  we, 
the  goodly  company,  singing  a  ceaseless  chorus  to  the 
music  of  the  barrel-organ,  drum,  and  cymbals.  On  the 
whole,  not  more  monotonous  than  the  Ring  in  Hyde  Park, 
London,  and  much  merrier  ;  for  when  do  the  circling  com- 
pany sing  chorus,  theref  to  the  barrel-organ  ?  when  do  the 
ladies  embrace  their  horses  round  the  neck  with  both 
arms?  when  do  the  gentlemen  fan  the  ladies  with  the 
tails  of  their  gallant  steeds  ?  On  all  these  revolving  de- 
lights, and  on  their  own  especial  lamps  and  Chinese  lan- 
terns revolving  with  them,  the  thoughtfnl  weaver-face 
brightens,  and  the  Hotel  de  Ville  sheds  an  illuminated 
line  of  gaslight ;  while,  above  it,  the  Eagle  of  France, 
gas-outlined,  and  apparently  afflicted  with  the  prevailing 
infirmities  that  have  lighted  on  the  poultry,  is  in  a  very 
Undecided  state  of  policy,  and  as  a  bird  moulting.  Flags 
flutter  all  around.  Such  is  the  prevailing  gayety  that  the 
keeper  of  the  prison  sits  on  the  stone  steps  outside  the 
prison  door  to  have  a  look  at  the  world  that  is  not  locked 
tip  ;  while  that  agreeable  retreat,  the  wine-shop  opposite 
to  the  prison  in  the  prison  alley  (its  sign  La  Tranquillite, 
because  of  its  charming  situation),  resounds  with  the 
voices  of  the  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  who  resort 
there  this  festive  night.  And  it  reminds  me  that  only 
this  afternoon  I  saw  a  shepherd  in  trouble,  tending  this 
way  over  the  jagged  stones  of  a  neighbouring  street.  A 
magnificent  sight  it  was  to  behold  him  in  his  blouse,  a 
feeble  little  jog-trot  rustic,  swept  along  by  the  wind  of 
two  immense  gendarmes,  in  cocked  hats  for  which  the 
street  was  hardly  wide  enough,  each  carrying  a  bundle 
of  stolen  property  that  would  not  have  held  his  shoulder- 
knot,  and  clanking  a  sabre  that  dwarfed  the  prisoner. 

Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I  present  to  you  at  this  Fair, 
as  a  mark  of  my  confidence  in  the  people  of  this  so  re- 
nowned town,  and  as  an  act  of  homage  to  their  good  sensa 
and  fine  taste,  the  Ventriloquist,  the  Ventriloquist  ! 
Further,  Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I  present  to  you  tha 
Face-Maker,  the  Physiognomist,  the  great  Changer  of 
countenances,  who  transforms  the  features  that  Heaven 
has  bestowed  upon  him  into  an  endless  succession  of  sur- 
prising and  extraordinary  visages,  comprehending,  Mes- 
sieus  and  Mesdames,  all  the  contortions,  energetic  and 
expressive,  of  which  the  human  face  is  capable,  and  all 
the  passions  of  the  human  heart,  as  Love,  Jealousy,  Re- 
venge, Hatred,  Avarice,  Despair  !  Hi,  hi.  Ho,  ho,  Lu, 
lu,  Come  in  ! "  To  this  effect,  with  an  occasional  smite 
upon  a  sonorous  kind  of  tambourine, — bestowed  with  a 


512  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


will,  as  If  it  reprei^ented  the  people  who  won't  come  in, 
—holds  forth  a  man  of  lofty  and  severe  demeanour ;  a 
man  in  stately  uniform,  gloomy  with  the  knowledge  he 
possesses  of  the  inner  secrets  of  the  hooth.  *'Come  in, 
borne  in  !  Your  opportunity  presents  itself  to-night ;  to- 
morrow it  will  be  gone  forever.  To-morrow  morning  by 
the  Express  Train  the  railroad  will  reclaim  the  Ventrilo- 
quist and  the  Face-Maker  !  Algeria  will  reclaim  th^ 
ventriloquist  and  the  Face-Maker  I  Yes  I  For  the  hon^ 
our  of  their  country  they  have  accepted  propositions  of  a 
magnitude  incredible,  to  appear  in  Algeria.  See  them 
for  the  last  time  before  their  departure  !  We  go  to  com- 
mence on  the  instant.  Hi,  hi,  Ho,  ho,  Lu,  lu  !  Come 
in  !  Take  the  money  that  now  ascends,  Madame  ;  but, 
after  that,  no  more,  for  we  commence  !    Come  in  !  " 

Nevertheless,  the  eyes  both  of  the  gloomy  speaker 
and  of  Madame  receivini?  sous  in  a  muslin  bower  survey 
t!he  crowd  pretty  sharply  after  the  ascending  money  has 
ascended,  to  detect  any  lingering  sous  at  the  turning. 
J)oint.  **Come  in,  come  in  !  Is  there  anymore  money, 
Madame,  on  the  point  of  ascending  ?  If  so,  we  wait  for  it. 
If  not,  we  commence  ! "  The  orator  looks  back  over  his 
shoulder  to  say  it,  lashing  the  spectators  with  the  con- 
viction that  he  beholds,  through  the  folds  of  the  drapery 
into  which  he  is  about  to  plunge,  the  Ventriloquist 
and  the  Face-Maker.  Several  sous  burst  out  of  pockets, 
and  ascend.  Come  up,  then.  Messieurs  !  "  exclaims 
Madame,  in  a  shrill  voice,  and  beckoning  with  a  bejew- 
elled finger.  Come  up!  Time  presses.  Monsieur  has 
commanded  that  they  commence  ! Monsieur  dives  into 
his  Interior,  and  the  last  half-dozen  of  us  follow.  His 
Interior  is  comparatively  severe  ;  his  Exterior  also.  A 
true  Temple  of  Art  needs  nothing  but  seats,  drapery,  a 
small  table  with  two  moderator  lamps  hanging  over  it, 
and  an  ornamental  looking-glass  let  into  the  wall.  Mon- 
sieur in  uniform  gets  behind  the  table,  and  surveys  us 
with  disdain,  his  forehead  becoming  diabolically  intellec- 
tual under  the  moderators.  Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I 
present  to  you  the  Ventriloquist.  He  will  commence 
with  the  celebrated  Experience  of  the  bee  in  the  win- 
dow. The  bee,  apparently  the  veritible  bee  of  Nature, 
will  hover  in  the  window,  and  about  the  room.  He  will 
be  with  difiiculty  caught  in  the  hand  of  Monsieur  the^ 
Ventriloquist, — he  will  escape, — he  will  again  hover, — 
at  length  he  will  be  recapfjred  by  Monsieur  the  Ventril- 
oquist, and  will  be  with  difficulty  put  into  a  bottle. 
Achieve  then,  Monsieur  ! "  Here  the  proprietor  is  re 
placed  behind  the  table  by  the  Ventriloquist,  who  is  thin 
and  sallow,  and  of  a  weakly  aspect.  While  the  bee  is  in 
progress.  Monsieur  the  Proprietor  sits  apart  on  a  stool, 
immersed  in  dark  and  remote  thought.    The  moment 


THE  UNCOMMKKCIAL  TKAVELLEK.  51i5 

the  bee  is  bottled,  he  stalks  forward,  eyes  us  gloomily 
as  we  applaud,  and  then  announces,  sternly  waving  his 
hand:  "the  magnificent  Experience  of  the  child  witl^ 
the  whooping-cough  ! "  The  child  disposed  of,  he  starts 
up  as  before.  The  superb  and  extraordinary  Expe- 
rience of  the  dialogue  between  Monsieur  Tatambour 
in  his  dining-room,  and  his  domestic,  Jerome,  in  the 
cellar  :  concluding  with  the  songsters  of  the  grove,  and 
the  Concert  of  Domestic  Farm- Yard  animals."  All  this 
done,  and  well  done,  Monsieur  the  Ventriloquist  with- 
draws, and  Monsieur  the  Face-Maker  bursts  in,  as  if 
his  retiring  room  were  a  mile  long  instead  of  a  yard.  A 
corpulant  little  man  in  a  large  white  waistcoat,  with  a 
comic  countenance,  and  with  a  wig  in  his  hand.  Irrev- 
erent disposition  to  laugh  instantly  checked  by  the  tre- 
mendous gravity  of  the  Face -Maker,  who  intimates  in 
his  bow  that  if  we  expect  that  sort  of  thing  we  are  mis- 
taken. A  very  little  shaving- glass  with  a  leg  behind  it 
is  handed  in,  and  placed  on  the  table  before  the  Face- 
Maker.  "  Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  with  no  other  assist- 
ance than  this  mirror  and  this  wig,  I  shall  have  the 
honour  of  showing  yoa  a  thousand  characters."  As  a 
preparation  the  Face-Maker  with  both  hands  gouges 
himself,  and  turns  his  mouth  inside  out.  He  then 
becomes  frightfully  grave  again,  and  says  to  the  Pro- 
prietor, ''I  am  ready!"  Proprietor  stalks  rrum 
baleful  reverv,  and  announces,  T^^^  oung  Conscript ! 
Face-Maker  claps  his  wig  on  Ziind-side  before,  looks  in 
the  glass,  and  appears  above  it  as  a  conscript  so  very 
imbecile,  and  squinting  so  extremely  hard,  that  I  should 
think  the  State  would  never  get  any  good  of  him. 
Thunders  of  applause.  Face-Maker  dips  behind  the 
looking-glass,  brings  his  own  hair  forward,  is  himself 
again,  is  awfp.Uy  grave.  A  distinguished  inhabitant 
of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain."  Face-Maker  dips, 
rises,  is  supposed  to  be  aged,  blear-eyed,  toothless, 
slightly  palsied,  supernaturally  polite,  evidently  of 
noble  birth.  The  oldest  member  of  the  Corps  of 
Invalids  on  the  fete  day  of  his  master."  Face-Maker 
dips,  rises,  wears  the  wig  on  one  side,  has  become  the 
feeblest  military  bore  in  existence,  and  (it  is  clear) 
would  lie  frightfully  about  his  past  achievements  if  he 
were  not  confined  to  pantomime.  The  Miser  !  "  Face- 
Maker  dips,  rises,  clutches  a  bag,  and  every  hair  of  the 
wig  is  on  end  to  express  that  he  lived  in  continual  dread 
of  thieves.  The  Genius  of  France!"  Face-Maker 
dips,  rises,  wig  pushed  back  and  smoothed  flat,  little 
cocked  hat  (artfully  concealed  tiU  now)  put  atop  of  it, 
Face-Maker's  white  waiscoat  iriuch  advanced.  Face- 
Ivraker's  left  hand  in  bosom  of  white  waistcoat,  Face- 
Maker's  right  hand  behind  his  back.  Thunders.  This 
no        ^  Vol.  18 


514  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


is  the  first  of  three  positions  of  the  Genius  of  France.  In 
the  second  position,  the  Face-Maker  takes  snuff  ;  in  the 
third,  rolls  up  his  right  hand,  and  surveys  illimitable 
armies  through  that  pocket-glass.  The  Face-Maker, 
then,  by  putting  out  his  tongue,  and  wearing  the  wig 
nohow  in  particular,  becomes  the  Village  Idiot.  Th« 
toost  remarkable  feature  in  the  whole  of  his  ingenious 
performance  is  that  whatever  he  does  to  disguise  himself 
has  the  effect  of  rendering  him  rather  more  like  himself 
than  he  was  at  first. 

There  were  peep-shows  in  this  Fair,  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  recognizing  several  fields  of  glory  with  which 
I  became  well  acquainted  a  year  or  two  ago  as  Crimean 
battles  now  doing  duty  as  Mexican  victories.-  The 
change  was  neatly  effected  by  some  extra  smoking  of 
the  Russians,  and  by  permitting  the  camp  followers  free 
range  in  the  foreground  to  despoil  the  enemy  of  their 
uniforms.  As  no  British  troops  had  ever  happened  to  be 
within  sight  when  the  artist  took  his  original  sketches, 
it  followed  fortunately  that  none  were  in  the  way  now. 

The  Fair  wound  up  with  a  ball.  Respecting  the  par- 
ticular night  of  the  week  on  which  the  ball  took  place, 
I  decline  to  commit  myself  ;  merely  mentioning  that  it 
was  held  in  a  stable-yard  so  very  close  to  the  railway 
that  it  is  a  mercy  the  locomotive  did  not  set  fire  to  it. 
<Tn  Scotland,  I  suppose  it  would  have  done  so.)  There, 
in  a  tent  prettily  decorated  with  looking-glasses  and  a 
myriad  of  toy  flags,  the  people  danced  all  night.  It  was 
not  an  expensive  recreation,  the  price  of  a  double  ticket 
for  a  cavalier  and  lady  being  one  and  llireepence  in 
English  money,  and  even  of  that  small  sum  fivey^ence 
was  reclaimable,  for  consommation  "  ;  which  word  I 
venture  to  translate  into  refreshments  of  no  greater 
strength,  at  the  strongest,  than  ordinary  wine  made  hot, 
with  sugar  and  lemon  in  it.  It  was  a  ball  of  great  good- 
humour  and  of  great  enjoyment,  though  very  many  v/f  the 
dancers  must  have  been  as  poor  as  the  fifteen  subjects  of 
the  P.  Salcy  Family. 

In  short,  not  having  taken  my  own  pet  national  pint- 
pot  with  me  to  this  Fair,  I  was  very  well  satisfied  with 
the  measure  of  simple  enjoyment  that  it  poured  into  the 
dull  French -Flemish  country  life.  How  dull  that  is  I 
had  an  opportunity  of  considering  when  the  Fair  was 
over ;  when  the  tri-coloured  flags  were  withdrawn  frgm 
the  windows  of  the  houses  on  the  Place,  where  the  Fair 
was  held  ;  when  the  windows  were  close  shut,  appar- 
ently until  next  Fair- time  ;  when  the  Hotel  de  Ville  had 
cut  off  its  gas  and  put  away  its  eagle  ;  when  the  two 
paviors,  whom  I  take  to  form  the  entire  paving  popula- 
tion of  the  town,  were  ramming  down  the  stones  which 
had  been  pulled  up  for  the  erection  of  decorative  poles  ; 


THE  UNCOlVlMEKCIAL  1  KAVELLER. 


515 


when  the  jailer  had  slammed  his  gate,  and  sulkily 
locked  himself  in  with  his  charges.  But  then  as  I  paced 
the  ring  which  marked  the  track  of  the  departed  Lobby- 
horse  on  the  market-place,  pondering  in  my  mind  how 
long  some  hobby-horses  do  leave  their  tracks  in  public 
ways,  and  how  difficult  they  are  to  erase,  my  eyes  were 
greeted  with  a  goodly  sight.  I  beheld  four  male  per- 
sonages thoughtfully  pacing  the  Place  together  in  the 
sunlight,  evidently  not  belonging  to  the  town,  and  hav- 
ing upon  them  a  certain  loose  cosmopolitan  air  of  not 
belonging  to  any  town.  One  was  clad  in  a  suit  of  white 
canvas,  another  in  a  cap  and  blouse,  the  third  in  an  old 
military  frock,  the  fourth  in  a  shapeless  dress,  that 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  made  out  of  old  umbrellas. 
All  wore  dust-coloured  shoes.  My  heart  beat  high  ;  for 
in  those  four  male  personages,  although  complexionless 
and  eyebrowless,  I  beheld  four  subjects  of  the  Family 
P.  Salcy.  Blue-bearded  though  they  were,  and  bereft 
of  the  youthful  smoothness  of  cheek  which  is  imparted 
by  what  is  termed  in  Albion  a  "  Whitechapel  shave" 
(and  which  is,  in  fact,  whitening  judiciously  applied  to 
the  jaws  wdth  the  palm  of  the  hand),  I  recognized  them. 
As  I  stood  admiring,  there  emerged  from  the  yard  of  a 
lowly  Cabaret  the  excellent  Ma  Mere,  Ma  Mere,  with  the 
words,  The  soup  is  served," — words  which  so  elated 
the  subject  in  the  canvas  suit,  that,  when  they  all  ran 
in  to  partake,  he  went  last,  dancing  with  his  hands 
stuck  angularly  into  the  pockets  of  his  canvas  trousers, 
after  the  Pierrot  manner.  Glancing  down  the  Yard, 
the  last  I  saw  of  him  was  that  he  looked  in  through  a 
window  (at  the  soup,  no  doubt)  on  one  leg. 

Full  of  this  pleasure,  I  shortly  afterwards  departed 
from  the  town,  little  dreaming  of  an  addition  to  my 
good  fortune.  But  more  was  in  reserve.  I  went  by  a 
train  which  was  heavy  with  third-class  carriages  full  of 
young  fellows  (well  guarded)  who  had  drawn  unlucky 
numbers  in  the  last  conscription,  and  were  on  their  way 
to  a  famous  French  garrison  town  where  much  of  the 
raw  military  material  is  worked  up  into  soldiery.  At 
the  station  they  had  been  sitting  about  in  their  thread- 
bare, homespun  blue  garments,  with  their  poor  little 
bundles  under  their  arms,  covered  with  dust  and  clay, 
and  the  various  soils  of  France  ;  sad  enough  at  heart, 
most  of  them,  but  putting  a  good  face  upon  it,  and  slap- 
ping their  breasts  and  singing  choruses  on  the  smallest 
provocation,  the  gayer  spirits  shouldering  half-loaves  of 
black  bread  speared  upon  their  walking-sticks.  As  we 
went  along,  they  were  audible  at  every  station,  chorus- 
ing wildly  out  of  tune,  and  feigning  the  highest  hilarity. 
After  a  while,  however,  they  began  to  leave  off  singing, 
ftud  to  laugh  naturally,  while  at  intervals  there  mingled 


516  WORKS  OF  CHARLES'  DICKENS. 


with  their  laughter  the  harking  of  a  dog.  Now,  I  had 
to  alight  short  of  their  destination,  and  as  that  stoppage 
of  the  train  was  attended  with  a  quantity  of  horn-blow- 
ing, bell-ringing,  and  proclamation  of  what  Messieurs 
les  Voyage urs  were  to  do,  and  were  not  to  do,  in  order 
to  reach  their  respective  destinations,  I  had  ample  leisure 
to  go  forward  on  the  platform  to  take  a  parting  look  at 
my  recruits,  whose  heads  were  all  out  at  window,  and 
who  were  laughing  like  delighted  children.  Then  I 
perceived  that  a  large  poodle  with  a  pink  nose,  who  had 
been  their  travelling  companion  and  the  cause  of  their 
mirth,  stood  on  his  liind  legs  presenting  arms  on  the  ex- 
treme verge  of  the  platform,  ready  to  salute  them  as 
the  train  went  olf.  This  poodle  wore  a  military  shako 
(it  is  unnecessary  to  add  very  much  on  one  side,  over 
one  eye),  a  little  military  coat,  and  the  regulation  white 
gaiters.  He  was  armed  with  a  little  musket  and  a  little 
sword-bayonet,  and  he  stood  presenting  arms  in  perfect 
attitude,  with  his  unobscured  eye  on  his  master  or 
superior  officer,  who  stood  by  him.  So  admirable  was 
his  discipline,  that  when  the  train  moved,  and  he  was 
greeted  with  the  parting  cheers  of  the  recruits,  and 
also  with  a  shower  of  centimes,  several  of  which  struck 
his  shako  and  had  a  tendency  to  discompose  him,  he  re- 
mained stanch  on  his  post  until  the  train  was  gone.  He 
then  resigned  his  arms  to  his  officer,  took  off  his  shako 
by  rubbing  hi?  paw  over  it,  dropped  on  four  legs,  bring- 
ing his  uniform  coat  into  the  absurdest  relations  with 
the  overarching  skies,  and  ran  about  the  platform  in  his 
white  gaiters,  wagging  his  tail  to  an  exceeding  great 
extent.  It  struck  me  that  there  was  more  waggery  than 
this  in  the  poodle,  and  that  he  knew  that  the  recruits 
would  neither  get  through  their  exercises  nor  get  rid  of 
their  uniforms  as  easily  as  he  ;  revolving  which  in  my 
thoughts,  and  seeking  in  my  pockets  some  small  money 
to  bestow  up  him,  I  casually  directed  my  eyes  to  the 
face  of  his  superior  officer,  and  in  him  beheld  the  Face- 
Maker  !  Though  it  was  not  the  way  to  Algeria,  but 
quite  the  reverse,  the  military  poodle's  Colonel  was  the 
Face-Maker,  in  a  dark  blouse,  with  a  small  bundle 
dangling  over  his  shoulder  at  the  end  of  an  umbrella, 
and  taking  a  pipe  from  his  breast  to  smoke  as  he  and 
the  poodle  went  their  mysterious  way. 


THE  UNCCMjiEiCClAi.  litAVELLEK.  517 


XXVI. 

Medicine-Men  of  Civilization. 

My  voyages  (in  paper  boats)  among  savages  often  yield 
me  matter  for  reflection  at  home.  It  is  curious  to  trace 
the  savage  in  the  civilized  man,  and  to  detect  the  hold 
of  some  savage  customs  on  conditions  of  society  rather 
boastful  of  being  high  above  them. 

I  wonder,  is  the  Medicine-Man  of  the  North  American 
Indians  never  to  be  got  rid  of,  out  of  the  North  Americai^ 
country  ?  He  comes  into  my  Wigwam  on  all  manner  of 
occasions,  and  with  the  absurd  est  Medicine."  I  al- 
ways find  it  extremely  difficult,  and  I  often  find  it  slm 
f)ly  impossible,  to  keep  him  out  of  my  Wigwam.  For 
his  legal  Medicine  "  he  sticks  upon  his  head  the  hair 
of  quadrupeds,  and  plasters  the  same  with  fat,  and  dirty- 
white  powder,  and  talks  a  gibberish  quite  unknown  to 
the  men  and  squaws  of  his  tribe.    For  his  religious 

Medicine he  puts  on  puffy  white  sleeves,  little  black 
aprons,  large  black  waistcoats  of  a  peculiar  cut,  collar- 
less  coats,  with  Medicine  button-holes.  Medicine  stock- 
ings and  gaiters  and  shoes,  and  tops  the  whole  with  a 
highly  grotesque  Medicinal  hat.  In  one  respect,  to  be 
sure,  I  am  quite  free  from  him.  On  occasions  when  the 
Medicine-Men  in  general,  together  with  a  large  number 
of  the  miscellaneous  inhabitants  of  his  village,  both 
male  and  female,  are  presented  to  the  principal  Chief, 
his  native  Medicine"  is  a  comical  mixture  of  old  odds 
and  ends  (hired  of  traders),  and  new  things  in  antiquated 
shapes,  and  pieces  of  red  cloth  (of  which  he  is  particu- 
larly fond),  and  white  and  red  and  blue  paint  for  the 
face.  The  irrationality  of  this  particular  Medicine  cul- 
minates in  a  mock  battle-rush,  from  which  many  of  the 
squaws  are  borne  out  much  dilapidated.  I  need  nof 
observe  how  unlike  this  is  to  a  Drawing-Room  at  St. 
James's  Palace. 

The  African  magician  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  exclude 
from  my  Wigwam  too.  This  creature  takes  cases  oi 
death  and  mourning  under  his  supervision,  and  will  fre» 
quently  impoverish  a  whole  family  by  his  preposterous 
enchantments.  He  is  a  great  eater  and  drinker,  and  ali 
ways  conceals  a  rejoicing  stomach  under  a  grieving 
exterior.  His  charms  consist  of  an  infinite  quantity  of 
worthless  scraps,  for  which  he  charges  very  high.  He 
impresses  on  the  poor  bereaved  natives,  that  the  more 
of  his  followers  they  pay  to  exhibit  such  scraps  on  their 
persons  for  an  hour  or  two  (though  they  never  saw  the 


518 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


deceased  in  their  lives,  and  are  put  in  high  spirits  by  his 
decease),  the  more  honourably  and  piously  they  grieve 
for  the  dead.  The  poor  people  submitting  themselves  to 
this  conjurer,  an  expressive  procession  is  formed,  in 
which  bits  of  stick,  feathers  of  birds,  and  a  quantity  of 
other  unmeaning  objects  besmeared  with  black  paint, 
are  carried  in  a  certain  ghastly  order  of  which  no  one 
understands  the  meaning,  if  it  ever  had  any,  to  the 
brink  of  the  grave,  and  are  then  brought  back  again. 

In  the  Tonga  Islands  everything  is  supposed  to  have  a 
soul,  so  that,  when  a  hatchet  is  irreparably  broken,  they 
say,  His  immortal  part  has  departed  ;  he  is  gone  to  the 
happy  hunting-plains."  This  belief  leads  to  the  logical 
sequence  that,  when  a  man  is  buried,  some  of  his  eating 
and  drinking  vessels,  and  some  of  his  warlike  imple- 
ments, must  be  broken,  and  buried  with  him.  Super- 
stitious and  wrong,  but  surely  a  more  respectable  super- 
stition than  the  hire  of  antic  scraps  for  a  show  that  has 
no  meaning  based  on  any  sincere  belief. 

Let  me  halt  on  my  Uncommercial  road,  to  throw  f. 
passing  glance  on  some  funeral  solemnities  that  I  have 
seen  where  North  American  Indians,  African  Magicians, 
iand  Tonga-Islanders  are  supposed  not  to  be. 

Once  I  dwelt  in  an  Italian  city,  where  there  dwelt  with 
me  for  a  while  an  Englishman  of  an  amiable  nature,  great 
enthusiasm,  and  no  discretion.  This  friend  discovered 
a  desolate  stranger  mourning  over  the  unexpected  death 
of  one  very  dear  to  him,  in  a  solitary  cottage  among  the 
viigyards  of  an  outlying  village.  The  circumstances 
of  me  bereavement  were  unusually  distressing  ;  and  the 
survivor,  new  to  the  peasants  and  the  country,  sorely 
needed  help,  being  alone  with  the  remains.  With  some 
difficulty,  but  with  the  strong  influence  of  a  purpose  at 
once  gentle,  disinterested,  and  determined,  my  friend — 
Mr.  Kindheart — obtained  access  to  the  mourner,  and  un- 
dertook to  arrange  the  burial. 

There  was  a  small  Protestant  cemetery  near  the  city 
walls,  and  as  Mr.  Kindheart  came  back  to  me,  he  turned 
into  it,  and  chose  the  spot.  He  was  always  highly  flushed 
when  rendering  a  service  unaided,  and  I  knew  that  to 
make  him  happy  I  must  keep  aloof  from  his  ministra= 
tion.  But  when  at  dinner  he  warmed  with  the  good  ac- 
tion of  the  day,  and  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  of  com- 
forting the  mourner  with  an  English  funeral,"  I  ven- 
tured to  intimate  that  I  thought  that  institution,  which 
was  not  absolutely  sublime  at  home,  might  prove  a  fail- 
ure in  Italian  hands.  However,  Mr.  Kindheart  was  so 
enraptured  with  his  conception,  that  he  presently  wrote 
down  into  the  town  requesting  the  attendance,  with  to- 
morrow's earliest  light,  of  a  certain  little  upholsterer. 
This  upholsterer  was  famous  for  speaking  the  unintelli- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  519 


gible  local  dialect  (his  own)  in  a  far  more  unintelligible 
manner  than  any  other  man  alive. 

When  from  my  bath  next  morning  I  overheard  Mr. 
Kindheart  and  the  upholsterer  in  conference  on  the  top  of 
an  echoing  staircase  ;  and  when  I  overheard  Mr.  Kind- 
heart  rendering  English  Undertaking  phrases  into  very 
choice  Italian,  and  the  upholsterer  replying  in  tlie  un- 
known Tongues  ;  and  when  I  furthermore  remembere(} 
that  the  local  funerals  had  no  resemblance  to  English 
funerals, — I  became  in  my  secret  bosom  apprehensive. 
But  Mr.  Kindheart  informed  me  at  breakfast  that  meas- 
ures had  been  taken  to  insure  a  signal  success. 

As  the  funeral  was  to  take  place  at -sunset,  and  as  I  knew 
to  which  of  the  city  gates  it  must  tend,  I  went  out  at  that 
gate  as  the  sun  descended,  and  walked  along  the  dusty, 
dusty  road.  I  had  not  walked  far  when  I  encountered 
this  procession  : — 

1.  Mr.  Kindheart,  muph  abashed,  on  an  immense  gray 
4iorse*  . 

2.  A  bright  yellow  coach  and  pair,  drrven  by  a  coach- 
inan  in  bright  red  velvet  knee-breeches  and  waistcoat. 
(This  was  the  established  local  idea  of  State.)  Both 
coach  doors  kept  open  by  the  coffin,  which  was  otx  its 
side  within,  and  sticking  out  at  each. 

3.  Behind  the  coach,  the  mourner,  for  whom  the 
coach  was  intended,  walking  in  the  dust. 

4.  Concealed  behind  a  roadside  well  for  the  irrigation 
of  a  garden,  the  unintelligible  Upholsterer,  admiring. 

It  matters  little  now.  Coaches  of  all  colors  are  alike 
to  poor  Kindheart,  and  he  rests  far  North  of  the  little 
Jemetery  with  the  cypress- trees,  by  the  city  walls  where 
the  Mediterranean  is  so  beautiful. 

My  first  funeral,  a  fair  representative  funeral  after  its 
kind,  was  that  of  the  husband  of  a  married  servant, 
once  my  nurse.  She  married  for  money.  Sally  Flanders, 
^fter  a  year  or  two  of  matrimony,  became  the  relict  of 
Glanders,  a  small  master-builder ;  and  either  she  or 
Glanders  had  done  me  the  honour  to  express  a  desire 
;hat  I  should  follow."  I  may  have  been  seven  or  eight 
j^ears  old, — young  enough,  certainly,  to  feel  rather 
alarmed  by  the  expression,  as  not  knowing  where  the 
invitation  was  held  to  terminate,  and  how  far  I  was  ex- 
pected to  follow  the  deceased  Flanders.  Consent  being 
given  by  the  heads  of  houses,  I  was  jobbed  up  into  what 
was  pronounced  at  home  decent  mourning  (comprehend- 
ing somebody  else's  shirt,  unless  my  memory  deceives 
me),  and  was  admonished  that  if,  when  the  funeral  was 
in  action,  I  put  my  hands  in  my  pockets,  or  took  my  eyes 
out  of  my  pocket-handkerchief,  I  was  personally  lost, 
and  my  family  disgraced.  On  the  eventful  day,  having 
tried  to  get  myself  into  a  disastrous  frame  of  mind,  and 


520 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


having  formed  a  very  poor  opinion  of  myself  because  1 
couldn't  cry,  I  repaired  to  Sally's.  Sally  was  an  excellent 
creature,  and  had  been  a  good  wife  to  old  Flanders  ;  but 
the  moment  I  saw  her  I  knew  that  she  was  not  in  her 
own  real  natural  state.  She  formed  a  sort  of  Coat  of 
Arms,  grouped  with  a  smelling-bottle,  a  handkerchief, 
an  orange,  a  bottle  of  vinegar,  Flanders's  sister,  her  own 
Bister,  Flanders's  brother's  wife,  and  two  neighbouring 
gossips, — all  in  mourning,  and  all  ready  to  hold  her 
whenever  she  fainted.  At  sight  of  poor  little  me  she 
became  much  agitated  (agitating  me  much  more),  and 
having  exclaimed,  '*0,  here's  dear  Master  Uncommer, 
cial  I "  became  hysterical,  and  swooned  as  if  1  had  been 
the  death  of  her.  An  affecting  scene  followed,  dur, 
ing  which  I  was  handed  about  and  poked  at  her  by  vari^ 
Ous  people,  as  if  I  were  the  bottle  of  salts.  Reviving  a 
little,  she  embraced  me,  said:  ''You  knew  him  well, 
^ear  Master  Uncommercial,  and  he  knew  you  !  "  and 
fainted  again,  which,  as  the  rest  of  the  Coat  of  Arms 
soothingly  said,  ''done  her  credit."  Now  I  knew  that 
she  needn't  have  fainted  unless  she  liked,  and  that  she 
wouldn't  have  fainted  unless  it  had  been  expected  of  her, 
quite  as  well  as  I  know  it  at  this  day.  It  made  me  feej 
uncomfortable  and  hypocritical  besides.  I  was  not  sure 
but  that  it  might  be  m.anners  in  me  to  faint  next ;  and 
I  resolved  to  keep  my  eyes  on  Flanders's  uncle,  and  if  I 
saw  any  sie:ns  of  his  going  in  that  direction,  to  go  too, 
politely.  But  Flanders's  uncle  (who  was  a  weak  little 
old  retail  grocer)  had  only  one  idea,  which  was  that  we 
all  wanted  tea  ;  and  he  handed  us  cups  of  tea  all  around 
incessantly,  whether  we  refused  or  not.  There  was  a 
young  nephew  of  Flanders's  present,  to  whom  Flanders, 
it  was  rumoured,  had  left  nineteen  guineas.  He  drank 
all  the  tea  that  was  offered  him,  this  nephew, — amount- 
ing, I  should  say,  to  several  quarts, — and  ate  as  much 
plum-cake  as  he  could  possibly  come  by  ;  but  he  felt  it 
to  be  decent  mourning  that  he  should  now  and  then  stop 
in  the  midst  of  a  lump  of  cake,  and  appear  to  forget  that 
his  mouth  was  full,  in  the  contemplation  of  his  uncle's 
memory.  I  felt  all  this  to  be  the  fault  of  the  under 
taker,  who  was  handing  us  gloves  on  a  tea-tray,  as  if 
they  were  muffins,  and  tying  us  into  cloaks  (mine  had  to 
be  pinned  up  all  round,  it  was  so  long  for  me),  because  i 
knew  that  he  was  making  game.  So  when  we  got  out 
into  the  streets,  and  I  constantly  disarranged  the  proces- 
sion by  tumbling  on  the  people  before  me  because  my 
handkerchief  blinded  my  eyes,  and  tripping  up  the  peo- 
ple behind  me  because  my  cloak  was  so  long,  I  felt  that 
we  were  all  making  game.  I  was  truly  sorry  for  Flan- 
ders, but  I  knew  that  was  no  reason  why  we  should  b^ 
taking  (the  women  with  their  heads  in  hoods  like  coal- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


521 


scuttles  with  the  black  side  outward)  to  keep  step  with 
a  man  in  a  scarf,  carrying  a  thing  like  a  mourning  spy- 
glass which  he  was  going  to  open  presently  and  sweep 
the  horizon  with.  I  knew  that  we  should  not  all  have 
been  speaking  in  one  particular  key-note  struck  by  the 
undertaker,  if  we  had  not  been  making  game.  Even  in 
our  faces  we  were  every  one  of  us  as  like  the  undertaker 
as  if  we  had  been  his  ovvn  family,  and  I  perceived  that 
this  could  not  have  happened  unless  we  had  been  making 
game.  When  we  returned  to  Sally's,  it  was  all  of  a  piece. 
The  continued  impossibility  of  getting  on  without  plum- 
cake  ;  the  ceremonious  apparition  of  a  pair  of  decanters 
containing  port  and  sherry  and  cork  ;  Sally's  sister  at 
the  tea-table,  clinking  the  best  crockery,  and  shaking 
her  head  mournfully  every  time  she  looked  down  into 
the  teapot,  as  if  it  were  the  tomb  ;  the  Coat  of  Arms 
again,  and  Sally  as  before  ;  lastly,  the  words  of  consola- 
tion administered  to  Sally  when  it  was  considered  right 
that  she  should  come  round  nicely"  ;  which  were  that 
the  deceased  had  had  as  com-for-ta-ble  a  fu-ne-ral  as 
comfortable  could  be  !" 

Other  funerals  have  I  seen  with  grown-up  eyes,  since 
that  day,  of  which  the  burden  has  been  the  same  childish 
burden.  Making  game.  Real  affliction,  real  grief  and 
solemnity,  have  been  outraged,  and  the  funeral  has  been 
"performed.**  The  waste  for  which  the  funeral  cus- 
toms of  many  tribes  of  savages  are  conspicuous  has  at- 
tended these  civilized  obsequies  ;  and  once,  and  twice, 
have  I  wished  in  my^  soul  that,  if  the  waste  must  be, 
they  would  let  the  undertaker  bury  the  money,  and  let 
me  bury  the  friend. 

In  France,  upon  the  whole,  these  ceremonies  are  more 
sensibly  regulated,  because  they  are  upon  the  whole  less 
expensively  regulated.  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  ever 
been  much  edified  by  the  custom  of  tying  a  bib  and  apron 
on  the  front  of  the  house  of  mourning,  or  that  I  would 
myself  particularly  care  to  be  driven  to  my  grave  in  a 
nodding  and  bobbing  car,  like  an  infirm  four-post  bed- 
stead, by  an  inky  fellow-creature  in  a  cocked  hat.  Bat 
it  may  be  that  I  am  constitutionally  insensible  to  the 
virtue  of  a  cocked  hat.  In  provincial  France  the  solem- 
nities are  sufficiently  hideous,  but  are  few  and  cheap. 
The  friends  and  townsmen  of  the  departed,  in  their  own 
dresses  and  not  masquerading  under  the  auspices  of  the 
African  Conjurer,  surround  the  hand-bier,  and  often 
carry  it.  It  is  not  considered  indispensable  to  stifle  the 
bearers,  or  even  to  elevate  the  burden  on  their  shoul- 
ders ;  consequently  it  is  easily  taken  up,  and  easily  set 
down,  and  is  carried  through  the  streets  without  the  dis- 
tressing floundering  and  shuffling  that  we  see  at  home. 
A  dirty  priest  or  two,  and  a  dirtier  acolyte  or  two,  do  not 


522 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


lend  any  es^^ecial  grace  to  the  proceedings  ;  and  1  regar(^ 
with  personal  animosity  the  bassoon,  which  is  blown  at 
intervals  by  the  big-legged  priest  (it  is  always  a  big- 
legged  priest  who  blows  the  bassoon),  when  his  fellows 
combine  in  a  lugubrious  stalwart  drawl.  But  there  is 
far  less  of  the  Conjurer  and  the  Medicine-Man  in  the 
business  than  under  like  circumstances  here.  The  grim 
eoacaes  that  we  reserve  expressly  for  such  shows  are 
Uon-existent ;  if  the  cemetery  be  far  out  of  the  town, 
bhe  coaches  that  are  hired  for  other  purposes  of  life  are 
hired  for  this  purpose  ;  and  although  the  honest  vehicles 
make  no  pretence  of  being  overcome,  I  have  never  no- 
ticed that  the  people  in  them  were  the  worse  for  it.  In 
Italy  the  hooded  Members  of  Confraternities  who  attend 
on  funerals  are  dismal  and  ugly  to  look  upon  ;  but  the 
services  they  render  are  at  least  voluntarily  rendered, 
and  impoverish  no  one,  and  cost  nothing.  Why  should 
ihigh  civilization  and  low  savagery  ever  come  together 
Dn  the  point  of  making  them  a  wantonly  wasteful  and 
^ntemptible  set  of  forms  ? 

Once  I  lost  a  friend  by  death  who  had  been  troubled 
in  his  time  by  the  Medicine- Man  and  the  Conjurer,  and 
upon  whose  limited  resources  there  were  abundant 
claims.  The  Conjurer  assured  me  that  I  must  positively 
"  follow,"  and  both  he  and  the  Medicine-Man  entertained 
no  doubt  that  I  must  go  in  a  black  carriage,  and  must 
wear  fittings."  I  objected  to  fittings  as  having  nothing 
to  do  with  my  friendship,  and  I  objected  to  the  black 
carriage  as  being  in  more  senses  than  one  a  job.  So  it 
came  into  my  mind  to  try  what  would  happen  if  I  quietly 
walked  in  my  own  way  from  my  own  house  to  my  friend's 
burial-place,  and  stood  beside  his  open  grave  in  my  own 
dress  and  person,  reverently  listening  to  the  best  of 
Services.  It  satisfied  my  mind,  I  found,  quite  as  well 
as  if  I  had  been  disguised  in  a  hired  hatband  and  scarf, 
both  trailing  to  my  very  heels,  and  as  if  I  had  cost  the 
orphan  children,  in  their  greatest  need,  ten  guineas. 

Can  any  one  who  ever  beheld  the  stupendous  absurdi- 
ties attendant  on  **  A  message  from  the  Lords,"  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  turn  upon  the  Medicine-Man  of  the 
poor  Indians?  Has  he  any  Medicine"  in  that  dried- 
skin  pouch  of  his  so  supremely  ludicrous  as  the  two 
Masters  in  Chancery  holding  up  their  black  petticoats 
and  butting  their  ridiculous  wigs  at  Mr.  Speaker?  Yet 
there  are  authorities  innumerable  to  tell  me — as  there 
are  authorities  innumerable  among  the  Indians  to  tell 
bhem — that  the  nonsense  is  indispensable,  and  that  its 
abrogation  would  involve  most  awful  consequences. 
What  would  any  rational  creature  who  had  never  heard 
of  judicial  and  forensic  fittings  "  think  of  the  Court  of 
Crmmon  Pleas  on  the  first  day  of  Term  ?   Or  with  what 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


528 


an  awakened  sense  of  humour  would  Livingstone's  ac- 
count of  a  similar  scene  be  perused,  if  the  fur  and  red 
oloth  and  goat's  hair  and  horse-hair  and  powdered  chalk, 
and  black  patches  on  the  top  of  the  head,  were  all  at 
Tala  Mungongo  instead  of  Westminster?  That  model 
missionary  and  good  brave  man  found  at  least  one  tribe 
of  blacks  vith  a  very  strong  sense  of  the  ridiculous, 
nsomuch  .hat,  although  an  amiable  and  docile  peopis, 
/>hey  never  could  see  the  Missionaries  dispose  of  their 
legs  in  the  attitude  of  kneeling,  or  hear  them  begin  a 
hymn  in  chor  ,  without  bursting  into  roars  of  irrepres- 
sible laughtei.  J'  is  much  to  be  hoped  that  no  member 
of  this  facetious  tribe  may  ever  find  his  way  to  England, 
and  get  comm  ted  for  contempt  of  Court. 

In  the  Tonga  Island  already  mentioned,  there  are  a 
6et  of  personages  called  Mataboos, — or  some  such  name, 
— who  are  th  Masters  of  all  the  public  ceremonies,  and 
who  know  the  exact  place  in  which  every  chief  must  sit 
down  when  a  solemn  public  meeting  takes  place, — a 
meeting  which  bears  a  family  resemblance  to  our  own 
Public  Dinner,  in  respect  of  its  beiog  a  main  part  of  the 
proceedings  that  every  gentleman  present  is  required  to 
drink  something  nasty.  These  Mataboos  are  a  privileged 
order,  so  important  is  their  avocation,  and  they  make  the 
inost  of  their  high  functions.  A  long  way  out  of  the 
Tonga  Islands — indeed,  rather  near  the  British  Islands — 
was  there  no  calling  in  of  the  Mataboos  the  other  day  to 
settle  an  earth-convulsing  question  of  precedence  ?  and 
was  there  no  weighty  opinion  delivered  on  the  part  of 
the  Mataboos,  which,  being  interpreted  to  that  unlucky 
tribe  of  blacks  with  the  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  would 
infallibly  set  the  whole  population  screaming  with 
laughter  ? 

My  sense  of  justice  demands  the  admission,  however, 
that  this  is  not  quite  a  one-sided  question.  If  we  submit 
ourselves  meekly  to  the  Medicine-Man  and  the  Conjurer, 
and  are  not  exalted  by  it,  the  savages  may  retort  upon 
as  that  we  act  more  unwisely  than  they  in  other  matters 
wherein  we  fail  to  imitate  them.  It  is  a  widely  diffusea 
custom  among  savage  tribes,  when  they  meet  to  discuss 
any  affair  of  public  importance,  to  sit  up  all  night  making 
a  horrible  noise,  dancing,  blowing  shells,  and  (in  casea 
where  they  are  familiar  with  fire-arms)  flying  out  into 
open  places  and  letting  off  guns.  It  is  questionable 
whether  our  legislative  assemblies  might  not  take  a  hint 
from  this.  A  shell  is  not  a  melodious  wind-instrument, 
and  it  is  monotonous  ;  but  it  is  as  musical  as,  and  not 
more  monotonous  than,  my  Honourable  friend's  own 
trumpet,  or  the  trumpet  that  he  blows  so  hard  for  the 
Minister.  The  uselessness  of  arguing  with  any  supporter 
of  a  Government  or  of  an  Opposition  is  well  known.  Try 


624 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS> 


dancing.  It  is  a  better  exercise,  and  has  the  unspeakable 
recommendation  that  it  couldn't  be  reported.  The  hon- 
ourable and  savage  member  who  has  a  loaded  gun,  and 
has  grown  impatient  of  debate,  plunges  out  of  doors, 
fires  in  the  air,  and  returns  calm  and  silent  to  the  Pala« 
ver.  Let  the  honourable  and  civilized  member  similarly 
charged  with  a  speech  dart  into  the  cloisters  of  West- 
minster Abbey  in  the  silence  of  night,  let  his  speech  off, 
and  come  back  harmless.  It  is  not  at  first  sight  a  very 
rational  custom  to  paint  a  broad  blue  stripe  across  one's 
nose  and  both  cheeks,  and  a  broad  red  stripe  from  the 
forehead  to  the  chin,  to  attach  a  few  pounds  of  wood  to 
one's  under  lip,  to  stick  fish-bones  in  one's  ears  and  a 
brass  curtain-ring  in  one's  nose,  and  to  rub  one's  body 
all  over  with  rancid  oil,  as  a  preliminary  to  entering  op 
business.  But  this  is  a  question  .of  taste  and  ceremony, 
and  so  is  the  Windsor  Uniform.  The  manner  of  entering 
on  the  business  itself  is  another  question.  A  council  of 
six  hundred  savage  gentlemen  entirely  independent  of 
tailors,  sitting  on  their  hams  in  a  ring,  smoking,  ancj 
occasionally  grunting,  seem  to  me,  according  to  the  ex- 
perience I  have  gathered  in  my  voyages  and  travels, 
somehow  to  do  what  they  come  together  for ;  whereas 
that  is  not  at  all  the  general  experience  of  a  council  of 
six  hundred  civilized  gentlemen  very  dependent  on 
tailors,  and  sitting  on  mechanical  contrivances.  It  is 
better  that  an  Assembly  should  do  its  utmost  to  envelop 
itself  in  smoke,  than  that  it  should  direct  it  endeavours 
to  enveloping  the  public  in  smoke  ;  and  I  would  rather 
it  buried  half  a  hundred  hatchets  than  buried  one  sub- 
ject demanding  attention. 


XXVII. 

TithulVs  Almsfwuses. 

By  the  side  of  most  railways,  out  of  London,  one  may 

see  Almshouses  and  Retreats  (generally  with  a  Wing  or 
a  Centre  wanting,  and  ambitious  of  being  much  bigger 
than  they  are),  some  of  which  are  newly  founded  Insti- 
tutions, and  some  old  establishments  transplanted.  There 
Is  a  tendency  in  these  pieces  of  architecture  to  shoot  up- 
ward unexpectedly,  like  Jack's  bean-stalk,  and  to  be 
ornate  in  spires  of  Chapels  and  lanterns  of  Halls,  which 
might  lead  to  the  embellishment  of  the  air  with  many 
castles  of  questionable  beauty,  but  for  the  restraining 
consideration  of  expense.  However,  the  managers,  be- 
ing always  of  a  sanguine  temperament,  comfort  them- 
selves with  plans  and  elevations  of  Loomings  in  tha 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  525 

future,  and  are  inflaenced  in  tlie  present  by  pTiilanfhropy 
towards  the  railway  passengers.  For  the  question  how 
prosperous  and  promising  the  buildings  can  be  made  to 
look  in  their  eyes  usually  supersedes  the  lesser  question 
how  they  can  be  turned  to  the  best  account  for  the  in- 
mates. 

Why  none  of  the  people  who  reside  in  these  places  ever 
look  out  of  window,  or  take  an  airing  in  the  piece  of 
g^round  which  is  going  to  be  a  garden  by  and  by,  is  one 
of  the  wonders  I  have  added  to  my  always  length- 
ening list  of  the  wonders  of  the  world.  I  have  got  it 
into  my  mind  that  they  live  in  a  state  of  chronic  injury 
and  resentment,  and  on  that  account  refuse  to  decorate 
the  building  with  a  human  interest.  As  I  have  knowp 
legatees  deeply  injured  by  a  bequest  of  five  hundred 
pounds  because  it  was  not  five  thousand  ;  and  as  I  was 
once  acquainted  with  a  pensioner  on  the  Public  to  th« 
extent  of  two  hundred  a  year,  who  perpetually  anathema* 
tized  his  Country  because  he  was  not  in  the  receipt  of  four, 
having  no  claim  whatever  to  sixpence;  so  perhaps  it 
usually  happens,  within  certain  limits,  that  to  get  a  little 
help  is  to  get  a  notion  of  being  defrauded  of  more. 

How  do  they  pass  their  lives  in  this  beautiful  and 
peaceful  place?"  was  the  subject  of  my  speculation 
with  a  visitor  who  once  accompanied  me  to  a  charming 
rustic  retreat  for  old  men  and  women, — a  quaint,  ancient 
foundation  in  a  pleasant  English  county,  behind  a  pictur- 
esque church  and  among  rich  old  convent  gardens.  There 
were  but  some  dozen  or  so  of  houses,  and  we  agreed  that 
we  would  talk  with  the  inhabitants,  as  they  sat  in  their 
groined  rooms  between  the  light  of  their  fires  and  the 
light  shining  in  at  their  latticed  windows,  and  would 
find  out.  They  passed  their  lives  in  considering  them- 
selves mulcted  of  certain  ounces  of  tea  by  a  deaf  old 
steward,  who  lived  among  them  in  the  quadrangle. 
There  was  no  reason  to  suppose  that  any  such  ounces  of 
tea  had  ever  been  in  existence,  or  that  the  old  steward 
so  much  as  knew  what  was  the  matter  ;  he  passed  his 
life  in  considering  himself  periodically  defrauded  of  a 
birch-broom  by  the  beadle. 

But  it  is  neither  to  old  Almshouses  in  the  country,  nor 
to  new  Almshouses  by  the  railroad,  that  these  present 
Uncommercial  notes  relate.  They  refer  back  to  journeys 
made  among  those  commonplace  smoky-fronted  London 
Almshouses,  with  a  little  paved  court- yard  in  front  en- 
closed by  iron  railings,  which  have  got  snowed  up,  as  it 
were,  by  bricks  and  mortar,  which  were  once  in  a  suburb, 
but  are  now  in  the  densely  populated  town, — gaps  in  the 
busy  life  around  them,  parentheses  in  the  close  and 
blotted  texts  of  the  streets. 

Sometimes  these  Almshouses  belong  to  a  Company  or 


536  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Society.  Sometimes  they  were  established  by  indivi- 
duals, and  are  maintained  out  of  private  funds,  be- 
queathed in  perpetuity  long  ago.  My  favourite  among 
them  is  TitbuU's,  which  establishment  is  a  picture  of 
many.  Of  Titbull  I  know  no  more  than  that  he  deceased 
in  1723,  that  his  Christian  name  was  Sampson,  and  his 
social  designation  Esquire  ;  and  that  he  founded  these 
Almshouses  as  Dwellings  for  Nine  Poor  Women  and  Six 
i^oor  Men  by  his  Will  and  Testament.  I  should  not 
inow  even  this  much  but  for  its  being  inscribed  on  a 
grim  stone,  very  difficult  to  read,  let  into  the  front  of  the 
centre  house  of  Titball's  Almshouses,  and  which  stone 
is  ornamented  atop  with  a  piece  of  sculptured  drapery 
resembling  the  effigy  of  TitbuU's  bath-towel. 

Titbuirs  Almshouses  are  in  the  east  of  London,  in  a 
great  highway,  in  a  poor,  busy,  and  thronged  neighbour- 
hood. Old  iron  and  fried  fish,  cough-drops  and  artificial 
flowers,  boiled  pigs'  feet,  and  household  furniture  that 
looks  as  if  it  were  polished  up  with  lip-salve,  umbrellas 
full  of  vocal  literature,  and  saucers  full  of  shell-fish  in  a 
green  juice  which  I  hope  is  natural  to  them  when  their 
health  is  good,  garnish  the  paved  sideways  as  you  go  to 
TitbuU's.  I  take  the  ground  to  have  risen  in  those 
parts  since  TitbuU's  time,  and  you  drop  into  his  domain 
by  three  stone  steps.  So  did  I  first  drop  into  it,  very 
nearly  striking  my  brows  against  TitbuU's  pump,  which 
stands  with  its  back  to  the  thoroughfare  just  inside  the 
gate,  and  has  a  conceited  air  of  reviewing  TitbuU's  pen- 
sioners. 

''And  a  worse  one,"  said  a  virulent  old  man  with  a 
pitcher,  ''there  isn't  nowhere.  A  harder  one  to  work, 
nor  a  grudgin'er  one  to  yield,  there  isn't  nowhere  ! " 
This  old  man  wore  a  long  coat,  such  as  we  see  Hogarth's 
Chairmen  represented  with,  and  it  was  of  that  peculiar 
green-pea  hue,  without  the  green,  which  seems  to  come 
of  poverty.  It  had  also  that  peculiar  smell  of  cupboard 
which  seems  to  come  of  poverty. 

"The  pump  is  rusty,  perhaps,"  said  I. 

"  Not  it,"  said  the  old  man,  regarding  it  with  undiluted 
virulance  in  his  watery  eye.    "It  never  were  fit  to 
termed  a  pump.    That's  what's  the  matter  with  tY." 

"Whose  fault  is  that?"  said  I. 

The  old  man,  who  had  a  working  mouth,  which 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  masticate  his  anger,  and  to  find 
that  it  was  too  hard,  and  there  was  too  much  of  it, 
replied,  "  Them  gentlemen." 

"  What  gentlemen?" 

"Maybe  you're  one  of  'em?"  said  the  old  man,  suspi- 
rIousIv. 
"  The  trustees  ?  " 

"I  wouldn't  trust  'em  myself,"  said  the  virulent  0I4 
man. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  527 

**If  you  mean  the  gentlemen  who  administer  this 
place,  no,  I  am  not  one  of  them,  nor  have  I  ever  so  much 
as  heard  of  them." 

"  I  wish  /  never  heard  of  them,''  gasped  the  old  man  ; 
'*at  my  time  of  life — with  the  rheumatics — drawing 
water — from  that  thing  ! "  Not  to  be  deluded  into  call- 
ing it  a  Pump,  the  old  man  gave  it  another  virulent  look^ 
took  up  his  pitciier,  and  carried  it  into  a  corner  dwelling- 
iiouse,  shutting  the  door  after  him. 

Looking  around  and  seeing  that  each  little  house  was  a 
house  of  two  little  rooms  ;  and  seeing  that  the  little 
oblong  court-yard  in  front  was  like  a  graveyard  for  the 
inhabitants,  saving  that  no  w^ord  was  engraven  on  its 
flat,  dry  stones  ;  and  seeing  that  the  currents  of  life  and 
noise  ran  to  and  fro  outside,  having  no  more  to  do  with 
the  place  than  if  it  were  a  sort  of  low- water  mark  on  a 
lively  beach,— I  say,  seeing  this  and  nothing  else,  I  was 
going  out  at  the  gate  when  one  of  the  doors  opened. 

**Was  you  looking  for  anything,  sir?"  asked  a  tidy, 
well-favoured  woman. 

Really,  no  ;  I  couldn't  say  I  was." 
Not  wanting  any  one,  sir  ?  " 

*'  No — at  least  I — pray  what  is  the  name  of  the  •Iderly 
gentleman  who  lives  in  the  corner  there?" 

The  tidy  woman  stepped  out  to  be  sure  of  the  door  I 
indicated,  and  she  and  the  pump  and  I  stood  all  three  in 
a  row,  with  our  backs  to  the  thoroughfare. 

Oh !  His  name  is  Mr.  Battens,"  said  the  tidy 
woman,  dropping  her  voice. 

I  have  just  been  talking  with  him." 

"Indeed?"  said  the  tidy  woman.  ''Ho!  I  wonder 
Mr.  Battens  talked  !  '* 

Is  he  usually  so  silent  ?  " 

Well,  Mr.  Battens  is  the  oldest  here— that  is  to  say, 
the  oldest  of  the  old  gentlemen — in  point  of  residence. " 

She  had  a  way  of  passing  her  hands  over  and  under 
one  another,  as  she  spoke,  that  was  not  only  tidy  but 
propitiatory;  so  I  asked  her  if  I  might  look  at  her 
sitting-room.  She  willingly  replied,  Yes,  and  we  went 
into  it  together  ;  she  leaving  the  door  open,  with  an  eye, 
as  I  understood,  to  social  proprieties.  The  door  opening 
at  once  into  the  room,  without  any  intervening  entry, 
even  scandal  must  have  been  silenced  by  the  precaution. 

It  was  a  gloomy  little  chamber,  but  clean,  and  with  a 
mug  of  wall-flower  in  the  window.  On  the  chimney- 
piece  were  two  peacock's  feathers,  a  carved  ship,  a  few 
shells,  and  a  black  profile  with  one  eyelash ;  whether 
this  portrait  purported  to  be  male  or  female  passed  my 
comprehension,  until  my  hostess  informed  me  that  it 
\vas  her  only  son,  and  *'  quite  a  speaking  one." 
He  is  alive,  I  hope  ?  " 


528  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"No  sir,'*  said  the  widow;  "he  were  cast  away  in 
China. "  This  was  said  with  a  modest  sense  of  its  reflect- 
ing a  certain  geographical  distinction  on  his  mother. 

**  If  the  old  gentlemen  here  are  not  given  to  talking," 
said  I,    I  hope  the  old  ladies  are  ? — not  that  you  are  one." 

She  shook  her  head.    ''You  see  they  get  so  cross." 

''How  is  that?" 

"  Well,  whether  the  gentlemen  really  do  deprive  us  of 
any  little  matters  which  ought  to  be  ours  by  rights  I 
cannot  say  for  certain  ;  but  the  opinion  of  the  old  ones  is 
they  do.  And  Mr.  Battens,  he  do  even  go  so  far  as  to 
doubt  whether  credit  is  due  to  the  Founder.  For  Mr. 
Battens,  he  do  say,  anyhow  he  got  his  name  up  by  it, 
and  he  done  it  cheap.'* 

"  I  am  afraid  the  pump  has  soured  Mr.  Battens." 

"It  may  be  so,"  returned  the  tidy  widow,  "but  the 
handle  does  go  very  hard.  Still,  what  I  say  to  myself  is, 
the  gentlemen  may  not  pocket  the  difference  between  a 
good  pump  and  a  bad  one,  and  I  would  wish  to  think 
well  of  them.  And  the  dwellings,"  said  my  hostess, 
glancing  round  her  room, — "  perhaps  they  were  conven- 
ient dwellings  in  the  Founder's  time  considered  aB  his 
time,  and  therefore  he  should  not  be  blamed.  But  Mrs. 
Saggars  is  very  hard  upon  them." 

"Mrs.  Saggers  is  the  oldest  here?" 

"  The  oldest  but  one.  Mrs.  Quinch  being  the  oldest, 
and  have  totally  lost  her  Iiead." 

"  And  you  ?  ' 

"  I  am  the  youngest  in  residence,  and  consequently  am 
not  looked  up  to.  But  when  Mrs.  Quinch  makes  a  happy 
release,  there  will  be  one  below  me.  Nor  is  it  to  be  ex- 
pected that  Mrs.  Saggers  will  prove  herself  immortal. " 

"  True.    Nor  Mr.  Battens." 

"  Regarding  the  old  gentlemen,"  said  my  widow, 
slightingly,  "  they  count  among  themselves.  They  do 
not  count  among  us.  Mr.  Battens  is  that  exceptional 
that  we  have  written  to  the  gentlemen  many  times,  and 
have  worked  the  case  against  them.  Therefore  he  have 
took  a  higher  ground.  But  we  do  not,  as  a  rule,  greatly 
reckon  the  old  gentlemen." 

Pursuing  the  subject,  I  found  it  to  be  traditionally 
settled  amon^  the  poor  ladies,  that  the  poor  gentlemen, 
whatever  their  ages,  were  all  very  old  indeed,  and  in  a 
state  of  dotage.  I  also  discovered  that  the  juniors  and 
new-comers  preserved  for  a  time  a  waning  disposition 
to  believe  in  Titbull  and  his  trustees,  but  that  as  they 
gained  social  standing  they  lost  this  faith,  and  dispar- 
aged Titbull  and  all  his  works. 

Improving  my  acquaintance  subsequently  with  this  re- 
spected lady,  whose  name  was  Mrs.  Mitts,  and  occasion- 
ally dropping  in  upon  her  with  a  little  offering  of  soun4 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


529 


Family  Hyson  in  my  pocket,  I  gradually  became  familiar 
with  the  inner  politias  and  ways  of  Titbull's  Almshouses. 
But  I  never  could  find  out  who  the  trustees  were,  or 
where  they  were  ;  it  being  one  of  the  fixed  ideas  of  the 
place  that  those  authorities  must  be  vaguely  and  myste- 
riously mentioned  as  "  the  gentlemen  "  only.  The  sec- 
retary of  *'the  gentlemen,"  was  once  pointed  out  to  me, 
evidently  engaged  in  championing  the  obnoxious  pump 
against  the  attacks  of  the  discontented  Mr.  Battens  ;  but 
I  am  not  in  a  condition  to  report  further  of  him  than 
that  he  had  the  sprightly  bearing  of  a  lawyer's  clerk.  I 
had  it  from  Mrs.  Mitts's  lips,  in  a  Very  confidential  mo- 
ment, that  Mr.  Battens  was  once  had  up  before  the 
gentlemen  "  to  stand  or  full  by  his  accusations,  and  that 
an  old  shoe  was  thrown  after  him  on  his  departure  from 
the  building  on  this  dread  errand, — not  ineffectually,  for 
the  interview,  resulting  in  a  plumber,  was  considered  to 
have  encircled  the  temples  of  Mr.  Battens  with  the 
wreath  of  victory. 

In  Titbull's  Almshouses,  the  local  society  is  not  re- 
garded as  good  society.  A  gentleman  or  lady  receiving 
visitors  from  without,  or  going  out  to  tea,  counts,  as  it 
were,  accordingly  ;  but  visitings  or  tea-drinkings  inter- 
bhanged  among  Titbullians  do  not  score.  Such  inter- 
changes, however,  are  rare,  in  consequence  of  internal 
dissensions  occasioned  by  Mrs.  Saggers's  pail,  wl^ich 
household  article  has  split  Titbull's  into  almost  as  many 
parties  as  there  are  dwellings  in  that  precinct.  The  ex- 
tremely complicated  nature  of  the  conflicting  articles  of 
belief  on  the  subject  prevents  my  stating  them  here 
with  my  usual  perspicuity  ;  but  I  think  they  have  all 
branched  off  from  the  root-and-trunk  question.  Has  Mrs. 
Saggers  any  right  to  stand  her  pail  outside  her  dwelling? 
The  question  has  been  much  refined  upon,  but,  roughly 
stated,  may  be  stated  in  those  terms. 

There  are  two  old  men  in  TitbulVs  Almshouses  who,  1 
have  been  given  to  understand,  knew  each  other  in  the 
world  beyond  its  pump  and  iron  railings  when  they  were 
both  "in  trade."  They  make  the  best  of  their  reverses, 
and  are  looked  upon  with  great  contempt.  They  are 
little,  stooping,  blear-eyed  old  men  of  cheerful  counte° 
nance,  and  they  hobble  up  and  down  the  court-yard 
wagging  their  chins,  and  talking  together  quite  gayly. 
This  has  given  offence,  and  has,  moreover,  raised  the 
question  whether  they  are  justified  in  passing  any 
other  windows  than  their  own.  Mr.  Battens,  however, 
permitting  them  to  pass  Ms  windows  on  the  disdainful 
ground  that  their  imbecility  almost  amounts  to  irrespon- 
sibility, they  are  allowed  to  take  their  walk  in  peace. 
They  live  next  door  to  one  another,  and  take  it  by  turns 
to  read  the  newspaper  aloud  (that  is  to  say  the  newest 


530 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


pewspaper  they  can  get),  and  they  play  cribbage  at 
night.  On  warm  and  sunny  days  they  have  been  known 
to  go  so  far  as  to  bring  out  two  chairs,  and  sit  by  the 
iron  railings,  looking  forth  ;  but  this  low  conduct  being 
much  remarked  upon  throughout  Titbull's,  they  were 
deterred  by  an  outraged  public  opinion  from  repeating 
it.  There  is  a  rumour — but  it  may  be  malicious — that 
they  hold  the  memory  of  Titbull  in  some  weak  sort  of 
veneration,  and  that  they  once  set  off  together  on  a  pil- 
grimage to  the  parish  churchyard  to  find  his  tomb.  To 
this,  perhaps,  might  be  traced  a  general  suspicion  that 
they  are  spies  of  the  gentlemen'*;  to  which  they 
were  supposed  to  have  given  colour  in  my  own  presence 
on  the  occasion  of  the  weak  attempt  at  justification  of 
the  pump  by  the  gentlemen's  clerk,  when  they  emerged 
bareheaded  from  the  doors  of  their  dwellings,  as  if  their 
dwellings  and  themselves  constituted  an  old-fashioned 
weather-glass  of  double  action  with  two  figures  of  old 
ladies  inside,  and  deferentially  bowed  to  him  at  intervals 
Until  he  took  his  departure.  They  are  understood  to  b^ 
perfectly  friendless  and  relationless.  Unquestionably, 
the  two  poor  fellows  make  the  very  best  of  their  lives  ii^ 
Titbull's  Almshouses,  and  unquestionably  they  are  (a$ 
before  mentioned)  the  subjects  of  unmitigated  contempi 
there.  ^ 
On  Saturday  nights,  when  there  is  a  greater  stir  thai? 
usual  outside,  and  when  itinerant  vendors  of  miscella- 
neous wares  even  take  their  stations  and  light  up  their 
smoky  lamps  before  the  iron  railings,  Titbull's  become^ 
fl-urried.  Mrs.  Saggers  has  her  celebrated  palpitations  of 
the  heart,  for  the  most  part,  on  Saturday  nights.  But 
Titbull's  is  unfit  to  strive  with  the  uproar  of  the  streets 
in  any  of  its  phases.  It  is  religiously  believed,  at  Tit- 
bull's, that  people  push  more  than  they  used,  and  like^ 
wise  that  the  foremost  object  of  the  population  of  Eng- 
land and  Wales,  is  to  get  you  down  and  trample  on  you. 
Even  of  railroads  they  know,  at  Titbull's,  little  more 
than  the  shriek  (which  Mrs.  Saggers  says  goes  through 
her,  and  ought  to  be  taken  up  by  government)  ;  and  the 
penny  postage  may  even  yet  be  unknown  there,  for  I 
have  never  seen  a  letter  delivered  to  any  inhabitant. 
But  there  is  a  tall,  straight,  sallow  lady  resident  in 
Number  Seven,  Titbull's,  who  never  speaks  to  anybody, 
who  is  surrounded  by  a  superstitious  halo  of  lost  wealth, 
who  does  her  household  work  in  housemaid's  gloves, 
and  who  is  secretly  much  deferred  to,  though  openly 
cavilled  at ;  and  it  has  obscurely  leaked  out  tliat  this 
old  lady  has  a  son,  grandson,  nephew,  or  other  relativ>3, 
who  is  "  a  Contractor,"  and  who  would  think  it  nothing 
of  a  job  to  knock  down  Titbull's,  pack  it  off  into  Com* 
wall,  and  knock  it  together  again.    An  immense  sensa- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  531 


tion  was  made  by  a  gypsy  party  calling  in  a  spring  van 
to  take  this  old  lady  up  to  go  for  a  day's  pleasure  into 
Epping  Forest,  and  notes  were  compared  as  to  which  of 
the  company  was  the  son,  grandson,  nephew,  or  other 
relative,  the  Contractor.  A  thick-set  personage  with  a 
white  hat  and  a  cigar  in  his  mouth  was  the  favourite  ; 
though,  as  Titbull's  had  no  other  reason  to  believe  that 
the  Contractor  was  there  at  all  than  that  this  man  was 
supposed  to  eye  the  chimney-stacks  as  if  he  would  like 
to  knock  them  down  and  cart  them  off,  the  general  mind 
was  much  unsettled  in  arriving  at  a  conclusion.  As  a 
way  out  of  this  difficulty,  it  concentrated  itself  on  the 
acknowledged  Beauty  of  the  party,  every  stitch  in  whose 
dress  was  verbally  unripped  by  the  old  ladies  then  and 
there,  and  whose  goings  on  "  with  another  and  a  thin> 
ner  personage  in  a  white  hat  might  have  suffused  the 
pump  (where  they  were  principally  discussed)  with 
blushes  for  months  afterwards.  Herein  Titbull's  was  to 
Titbull's  true,  for  it  has  a  constitutional  dislike  of  all 
strangers.  As  concerning  innovations  and  improvements, 
it  is  always  of  opinion  that  what  it  doesn't  want  itself 
nobody  else  ought  to  want.  But  I  think  I  have  met 
with  this  opinion  outside  Titbull's. 

Of  the  humble  treasures  of  furniture  brought  into 
Titbull's  by  the  inmates  when  they  establish  themselves 
in  that  place  of  contemplation  for  the  rest  of  their  days, 
by  far  the  greater  and  more  valuable  part  belongs  to  the 
ladies.  I  may  claim  the  honour  of  having  either  cross- 
ed the  threshold,  or  looked  in  at  the  door,  of  every  one 
of  the  nine  ladies  ;  and  I  have  noticed  that  they  are  all 
particular  in  the  article  of  bedsteads,  and  maintain  fa-» 
vourite  and  long-established  bedsteads  and  bedding  as 
a  regular  part  of  their  rest.  Generally  an  antiquated 
chest  of  drawers  is  among  their  cherished  possessions  ; 
a  tea-tray  always  is.  I  know  of  at  least  two  rooms  in 
which  a  little  tea-kettle  of  genuine  burnished  copper 
vies  with  the  cat  in  winking  at  the  fire  ;  and  one  old 
lady  has  a  tea-urn  set  forth  in  state  on  the  top  of  her 
chest  of  drawers,  which  urn  is  used  as  a  library,  and 
contains  four  duodecimo  volumes,  and  a  black  bordered 
newspaper,  giving  an  account  of  the  funeral  of  Her 
Royal  Highness,  the  Princess  Charlotte.  Among  the 
poor  old  gentlemen  there  are  no  such  niceties.  Their 
furniture  has  the  air  of  being  contributed,  like  some  ob 
solete  Literary  Miscellany,  by  several  hands"  ;  their 
few  chairs  never  match  ;  old  patchwork  coverlets  linger 
among  them  ;  and  they  have  an  untidy  habit  of  keeping 
their  wardrobes  in  hat- boxes.  When  I  recall  one  old 
gentleman  who  is  rather  choice  in  his  shoe-brushes  and 
blacking-bottle,  I  have  summed  up  the  domestic  ele- 
gances of  that  side  of  the  building. 


532  WORKS  OW  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


On  the  occurrence  of  a  death  in  TitbuU's,  it  is  in- 
variably agreed  among  the  survivors,  and  it  is  the  only 
subject  on  which  they  do  agree — that  the  departed  did 
something  "  to  bring  it  on."  Judging  by  Titbull's,  I 
should  say  the  human  race  need  never  die,  if  they  took 
care.  But  they  don't  take  care,  and  they  do  die  ;  and 
when  they  die  in  Titbull's  they  are  buried  at  the  cost 
of  the  Foundation.  Some  provision  has  been  made  for 
the  purpose,  in  virtue  of  which  (I  record  this  on  the 
strength  of  having  seen  the  funeral  of  Mrs.  Quinch)  a 
lively  neighbouring  undertaker  dresses  up  four  of  the 
old  men,  and  four  of  the  old  women,  hustles  them 
into  a  procession  of  four  couples,  and  leads  off  with 
a  large  black  bow  at  the  back  of  his  hat,  looking 
over  his  shoulder  at  them  airily  from  time  to  time,  to 
see  that  no  member  of  the  party  has  got  lost,  or  has 
tumbled  down,  as  if  they  were  a  company  of  dim  old' 
dolls. 

Resignation  of  a  dwelling  is  of  very  rare  occurrence 
in  Titbull's.  A  story  does  obtain  there,  how  an  ol(J 
iady's  son  once  drew  a  prize  of  Thirty  Thousand  Pounds 
in  the  Lottery,  and  presently  drove  to  the  gate  with  his 
own  carriage,  with  French  Horns  playing  up  behind,  and 
whisked  his  mother  away,  and  left  ten  guineas  for  a 
feast.  But  I  have  been  unable  to  substantiate  it  by  any 
evidence,  and  regard  it  as  an  Almshouse  Fairy  Tale. 
It  is  curious  that  the  only  proved  case  of  resignation 
happened  within  my  knowledge. 

It  happened  in  this  wise.  There  is  a  sharp  competition 
among  the  ladies  respecting  the  gentility  of  their 
visitors  ;  and  I  have  so  often  observed  visitors  to  be 
dressed  as  for  a  holiday  occasion,  that  I  suppose  the 
ladies  to  have  besought  them  to  make  all  possible  display 
when  they  come.  In  these  circumstances,  much  excite- 
ment was  one  day  occasioned  by  Mrs.  Mitts  receiving  ^ 
visit  from  a  Greenwich  Pensioner.  He  was  a  Pensioner 
of  a  bluff  and  warlike  appearance,  with  an  empty  coat- 
sleeve,  and  he  was  got  up  with  unusual  care  ;  his  coat^ 
buttons  were  extremely  bright,  he  wore  his  empty  coat- 
sleeve  in  a  graceful  festoon,  and  he  had  a  walking-stick 
in  his  hand  that  must  have  cost  money.  When,  with 
the  head  of  his  walking-stick,  he  knocked  at  Mrs.  Mitts'^ 
door, — there  are  no  knockers  in  Titbull's, — Mrs.  Mitts 
was  overheard  by  a  next-door  neighbour  to  utter  a  cry 
of  surprise  expressing  much  agitation  ;  and  the  sam^ 
neighbour  did  afterwards  solemnly  affirm  that  when  he 
was  admitted  into  Mrs.  Mitts's  room  she  heard  a  smack, 
■ — heard  a  smack  which  was  not  a  blow. 

There  was  an  air  about  this  Greenwich  Pensioner 
when  he  took  his  departure,  which  imbued  all  Titbull's 
with  the  conviction  that  he  was  coming  again.    He  was 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  533 


eagerly  looked  for,  and  Mrs.  Mitts  was  closely  watched, 
tn  the  mean  time,  if  anything  could  have  placed  the  un- 
fortunate six  old  gentlemen  at  a  greater  disadvantage 
fchan  that  at  which  they  chronically  stood,  it  would  have 
been  the  apparition  of  this  Greenwich  Pensioner.  They 
were  well  shrunken  already,  but  they  shrunk  to  noth- 
ing in  comparison  with  the  Pensioner.  Even  the  poor 
old  gentlemen  themselves  seemed  conscious  of  their  in- 
feriority, and  to  know  submissively  that  they  could 
never  hope  to  hold  their  own  against  the  Pensioner  with 
his  warlike  and  maritime  experience  in  the  past,  and 
his  tobacco  money  in  the  present ;  his  checkered  career 
of  blue  water,  black  gunpowder,  and  red  bloodshed  for 
England  home  and  beauty. 

Before  three  weeks  were  out  the  Pensioner  reappear- 
ed. Again  he  knocked  at  Mrs.  Mitts's  door  with  the 
handle  of  his  stick,  and  again  was  he  admitted.  But 
not  again  did  he  depart  alone  ;  for  Mrs.  Mitts,  in  a  bonnet 
identified  as  having  been  re-embellished,  went  out  walk- 
ing with  him,  and  stayed  out  till  the  ten  o'clock  beer. 
Greenwich  time. 

There  was  now  a  truce,  even  as  to  the  troubled  waters 
of  Mrs.  Saggers's  pail  ;  nothing  was  spoken  of  among 
the  ladies  but  the  conduct  of  Mrs.  Mitts  and  its  blight- 
ing influence  on  the  reputation  of  Titbull's.  It  was 
agreed  that  Mr.  Battens  ought  to  take  it  up'';  and 
Mr.  Battens  was  communicated  with  on  the  subject. 
That  unsatisfactory  individual  replied  '*that  he  didn't 
see  his  way  yet,"  and  it  was  unanimously  voted  by  the 
ladies  that  aggravation  was  in  his  nature. 

How  it  came  to  pass,  with  some  appearance  of  incon- 
sistency, that  Mrs.  Mitts  was  cut  by  all "  the  ladies  an(l 
the  Pensioner  admired  by  all  the  ladies,  matters  not. 
Before  another  week  was  out,  Titbull's  was  startled  by 
another  phenomenon.  At  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenooq 
appeared  a  cab,  containing  not  only  the  Greenwich  Pen> 
sioner  with  one  arm,  but,  to  boot,  a  Chelsea  Pensioner 
with  one  leg.  Both  dismounting  to  assist  Mrs.  Mitt^ 
into  the  cab,  the  Greenwich  Pensioner  bore  her  com- 
pany inside,  and  the  Chelsea  Pensioner  mounted  the 
box  by  the  driver,  his  wooden  leg  sticking  out  after  the 
manner  of  a  bowsprit,  as  if  in  jocular  homage  to  his 
friend's  sea-going  career.  Thus  the  equipage  drove 
away.    No  Mrs.  Mitts  returned  that  night. 

What  Mr.  Battens  might  have  done  in  the  matter  of 
taking  it  up,  goaded  by  the  infuriated  state  of  public 
feeling  next  morning,  was  anticipated  by  another  phe- 
nomenon,— a  Truck,  propelled  by  the  Greenwich  Pen- 
sioner and  the  Chelsea  Pensioner,  each  placidly  smoking 
a  pipe,  and  pushing  his  warrior  breast  against  the  han- 
dle. 


534  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  display  on  the  part  of  the  Greenwich  Pensioner 
of  his  ** marriage-lines,"  and  his  announcement  that 
himself  and  friend  had  looked  in  for  the  furniture  of 
Mrs.  G.  Pensioner,  late  Mitts,  by  no  means  reconciled 
the  ladies  to  the  conduct  of  their  sister  ;  on  the  contrary, 
it  is  said  that  they  appeared  more  than  ever  exasperated. 
Nevertheless,  my  stray  visits  to  Tithull's  since  the  date 
of  this  occurrence  have  confirmed  me  in  an  impression 
that  it  was  a  wholesome  fillip.  The  nine  ladies  are 
smarter,  both  in  mind  and  dress,  than  they  used  to  be, 
though  it  must  be  admitted  that  they  despise  the  six 
gentlemen  to  the  last  extent.  They  have  a  much  greater 
interest  in  the  external  thoroughfare,  too,  than  they 
had  when  I  first  knew  TitbulTs.  And  whenever  I 
chance  to  be  leaning  my  back  against  the  pump  or  the 
iron  railings,  and  to  be  talking  to  one  of  the  junior 
ladies,  and  to  see  that  a  flush  has  passed  over  her  face, 
I  immediately  know,  without  looking  round,  that  a 
Greenwich  Pensioner  has  gone  past. 


XXVIII. 

The  Italian  Prisoner. 

The  rising  of  the  Italian  people  from  under  their  un- 
utterable wrongs,  and  the  tardy  burst  of  day  upon 
them  after  the  long,  long  night  of  oppression  that  has 
darkened  their  beautiful  country,  have  naturally  caused 
my  mind  to  dwell  often  of  late  on  my  own  small  wan- 
derings in  Italy?  Connected  with  them  is  a  curious  lit- 
tle drama,  in  which  the  character  I  myself  sustained 
was  so  very  subordinate,  that  I  may  relate  its  story  with- 
out any  fear  of  being  suspected  of  self-display.  It  is 
strictly  a  true  story. 

I  am  newly  arrived  one  summer  evening  in  a  certain 
small  town  on  the  Mediterranean.  I  have  had  my  din- 
ner at  the  inn,  and  I  and  the  mosquitoes  are  coming  out 
into  the  streets  together.  It  is  far  from  Naples  ;  but  a 
bright,  brown,  plump  little  woman-servant  at  the  inn  is 
a  Neapolitan,  and  is  so  vivaciously  expert  in  pantomimic 
action,  that  in  the  single  moment  of  answering  my  re- 
quest to  have  a  pair  of  shoes  cleaned  which  I  have  left 
up-stairs,  she  plies  imaginary  brushes,  and  goes  com- 
pletely through  the  motions  of  polishing  the  shoes  up, 
and  laying  them  at  my  feet.  I  smile  at  the  brisk  little 
woman  in  perfect  satisfaction  with  her  briskness  ;  and  the 
brisk  little  woman,  amiably  pleased  with  me  because  I 
am  pleased  with  her,  claps  her  hands,  and  laughs  de- 


THE  UNC0MMERC1AJ>  TIiA\  ELLKli, 


585 


UghtfiHly.  We  are  in  the  inn  yard.  As  the  little 
woman's  bright  eyes  sparkle  on  the  cigarette  I  am  smok- 
ing, I  make  bold  to  offer  her  one;  she  accepts  it  none 
the  less  merrily  because  I  touch  a  most  charming  dimple 
In  her  fat  cheek  with  its  light  paper  end.  Glancing  up 
at  the  many  green  lattices  to  assure  herself  that  the 
mistress  is  not  looking  on,  the  little  woman  then  puts 
her  two  little  dimpled  arms  a-kimbo,  and  stands  on 
tiptoe  to  light  her  cigarette  at  mine.  "  And  now  dear 
little  sir,"  says  she,  pufting  out  smoke  in  a  most  innocent 
and  cherubic  manner,  keep  quite  straight  on,  take  the 
first  to  the  right,  and  probably  you  will  see  him  standing 
at  his  door." 

I  have  a  commission  to  "  him,"  and  I  have  been 
inquiring  about  him.  I  have  carried  the  commission 
about  Italy  several  months.    Before  I  left  England,  there 


lish  nobleman  (he  is  dead  in  these  days  when  I  relate 
the  story,  and  exiles  have  lost  their  best  British  friend), 
with  this  request :  "  Whenever  you  come  to  such  a 
town,  will  you  seek  out  one"  Giovanni  Carlavero,  who 
keeps  a  little  wine-shop  there,  mention  my  name  to  him 
suddenly,  and  observe  how  it  affects  him?"  1  accepted 
the  trust,  and  am  on  my  way  to  discharge  it. 

The  sirocco  has  been  blowing  all  day,  and  it  is  a  hot, 
unwholesome  evening,  with  no  cool  sea-breeze.  Mos- 
quitoes and  tire-fiies  are  lively  enough,  but  most  other 
creatures  are  faint.  The  coquettish  airs  of  pretty  young 
women  in  the  tiniest  and  wickedest  of  dolls  straw  hats, 
who  lean  out  at  open  lattice  blinds,  are  almost  the 
only  airs  stirring.  Very  ugly  and  haggard  old  women 
with  distaffs,  and  with  a  grey  tow  upon  them  that  looks 
as  if  they  were  spinning  out  their  own  hair  (I  suppose 
they  were  once  pretty,  too,  but  it  is  very  difficult  to 
believe  so),  sit  on  the  footway  leaning  against  house- 
walls. 

Everybody  who  has  come  for  water  to  the  fountain  stays 
there,  and  seems  incapable  of  any  such  energetic  idea  as 
going  home.  Vespers  are  over,  though  not  so  long  but 
that  I  can  smell  the  heavy  resinous  incense  as  I  pass  the 
church.  No  man  seems  to  be  at  w^ork,  save  the  copper- 
smith. In  an  Italian  town  he  is  always  at  work,  and  al- 
ways thumping  in  the  deadliest  manner. 

I  keep  straight  on,  and  come  in  due  time  to  the  first 
on  the  right, — a  narrow,  dull  street,  where  I  see  a  well- 
favoured  man  of  good  stature  and  military  bearing,  in  a 
great  coat,  standing  at  a  door.  Drawing  nearer  to  this 
threshold,  I  see  it  is  the  threshold  of  a  small  wine-shop; 
and  I  can  just  make  out,  in  the  dim  light,  the  inscription 
that  it  is  kept  by  Giovanni  Carlavero. 

I  touch  my  hat  to  the  figure  in  the  cloak,  and  pass  in, 
and  draw  a  stool  to  a  little  table.  The  lamp  (just  such 
another  as  they  dig  out  of  Pompeii)  is  lighted,  but  the 


came  to  me  one  night  a  certain 


and  gentle  Eng- 


536  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


place  is  empty.   TBe  figure  in  the  cloat  has  followed  mo 

m,  and  stands  before  meo 
"The  master?" 
•*  At  your  service,  sir." 

"Please  to  give  me  a  glass  of  the  wine  of  the  coun- 
try." 

He  turns  to  a  little  counter  to  ^et  it.  As  his  striking 
face  is  pale,  and  his  action  is  evidently  that  of  an  en» 
feebled  man,  I  remark  that  I  fear  that  he  has  been 
ill. 

It  is  not  much,  he  courteously  and  gravely  answers, 
though  bad  while  it  lasts, — the  fever. 

As  he  sets  the  wine  on  the  little  table,  to  his  manifest 
surprise  I  lay  my  hand  on  the  back  of  his,  look  him  in  tte 
face,  and  say  in  a  low  voice :  "I  am  an  Englishman, 
and  you  are  acquainted  with  a  friend  of  mine.    Do  you 

recollect  ?"  and  I  mention  the  name  of  my  generous 

countryman. 

Instantly  he  utters  a  loud  cry,  bursts  into  tears,  and 
falls  on  his  knees  at  my  feet,  clasping  my  legs  in  both 
his  arms,  and  bowing  his  head  to  the  ground. 

Some  years  ago,  this  man  at  my  feet,  whose  over- 
fraught  heart  is  heaving  as  i^  it  would  burst  from  his 
breast,  and  whose  tears  are  wet  upon  the  dress  I  wear, 
was  a  galley-slave  in  the  North  of  Italy.  He  was  a  po- 
litical offender,  having  been  concerned  in  the  then  last 
rising,  and  was  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life.  That 
he  would  have  died  in  his  chains  is  certain,  but  for  the 
circumstance  that  the  Englishman  happened  to  visit  his 
prison. 

It  was  one  of  the  vile  old  prisons  of  Italy,  and  a  part 
of  it  was  below  the  waters  of  the  harbour.  The  place  oi 
his  confinement  was  an  arched  underground  and  under- 
water gallery,  with  a  grill-gate  at  the  entrance,  through 
which  it  received  such  light  and  air  as  it  got.  Its  condi- 
tion was  insufferably  foul;  and  a  stranger  could  hardly 
breathe  in  it,  or  see  in  it  with  the  aid  of  a  torch.  At  the 
upper  end  of  this  dungeon,  and  consequently  in  the  worst 
position,  as  being  the  farthest  removed  from  light  and 
air,  the  Englishman  first  beheld  him,  sitting  on  an  iron 
bedstead,  to  which  he  was  chained  by  a  neavy  chain. 
His  countenance  impressed  the  Englishman  as  having 
nothing  in  common  with  the  faces  of  the  malefactors  with 
whom  he  was  associated,  and  he  talked  with  him,  and 
learned  how  he  came  to  be  there. 

When  the  Englishman  emerged  from  the  dreadful  den 
into  the  light  of  day,  he  asked  his  conductor,  the  governor 
of  the  jail,  why  Giovanni  Carlavero  was  put  into  the  worst 
place. 

*'  Because  he  is  particularly  recommended^"  was  the 
stringent  answer. 
**  Recommended,  that  is  to  say,  for  death  ?  " 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TKAVELLER. 


537 


**  Excuse  me;  particularly  recommended,"  was  again 
the  answer. 

"  He  has  a  bad  tumour  in  his  neck,  no  doubt  occasioned 
by  the  hardship  of  his  miserable  life.  If  it  continues 
to  be  neglected,  and  he  remains  where  he  is,  it  will  kill 
him." 

"  Excuse  me,  I  can  do  nothing.  He  is  particularly  rec- 
ommended." 

The  Englishman  was  staying  in  that  town,  and  he  went 
to  his  home  there;  but  the  figure  of  this  man  chained  to 
the  bedstead  made  it  no  home,  and  destroyed  his  rest  and 

Seace.  He  was  an  Englishman  of  an  extraordinarily  ten- 
er  heart,  and  he  could  not  bear  the  picture.  He  went 
back  to  the  prison  gate;  went  back  again  and  again,  and 
talked  to  the  man  and  cheered  him.  He  used  his  utmost 
influence  to  get  the  man  unchained  from  the  bedstead, 
were  it  only  for  ever  so  short  a  time  in  the  day,  and  per- 
mitted to  come  to  the  grate.  It  took  a  long  time,  but  the 
Englishman's  station,  personal  character,  and  steadiness 
of  purpose,  wore  out  opposition  so  far,  and  that  grace  was 
at  last  accorded. 

Through  the  bars,  when  he  could  thus  get  light 
upon  the  tumour,  the  Englishman  lanced  it,  ana  it 
did  well,  and  healed.  His  strong  interest  in  the  pris- 
oner had  greatly  increased  by  this  time;  and  he  formed 
the  desperate  resolution  that  he  would  exert  his  ut- 
most self-devotion,  and  use  his  utmost  efforts,  to  get 
Carlavero  pardoned. 

If  the  prisoner  had  been  a  brigand  and  a  murderer, — 
if  he  had  committed  every  non-political  crime  In  the 
Newgate  Calendar  and  out  of  it, — nothing  would  have 
been  easier  than  for  a  man  of  any  court  or  priestly  in- 
fluence to  obtain  his  release.  As  it  was,  nothing  could 
have  been  more  difiicult.  Italian  authorities,  and  Eng- 
lish authorities  who  had  interest  with  them.,  alike  as- 
sured the  Englishman  that  his  object  was  hopeless.  He 
met  with  nothing  but  evasion,  refusal,  and  ridicule. 
His  political  prisoner  became  a  joke  in  the  place.  It 
was  especially  observable  that  English  Circumlocution, 
and  English  Society  on  its  travels,  were  as  humor- 
ous on  the  subject  as  Circumlocution  and  Society  may 
be  on  any  subject  without  loss  of  caste.  But  the  Eng- 
lishman possessed  (and  proved  it  well  in  his  life)  a 
courage  very  unconmion  among  us ;  he  had  not  the 
least  fear  of  being  considered  a  bore  in  a  good  human 
cause.  So  he  went  on  persistently  trying,  and  trying, 
and  trying,  to  get  Giovanni  Carlavero  out.  That  pris- 
oner had  been  rigorously  rechained,  after  the  tumour 
operation,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  his  miserable  life 
could  last  very  long. 

One  day,  when  all  the  town  knew  about  the  Eng- 
lishman and  his  political  prisoner,  there  came  to  the 
Englishman  a  certain   sprightly  Italian   Advocate  of 


538 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Whom  lie  had  some  linowledge ;  and  he  made  this 
strange  proposal: 

"  Give  me  a  hundred  pounds  to  obtain  Carlavero's  re- 
lease. 1  think  I  can  get  him  a  pardon  for  that  money. 
But  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do  with  the 
money,  nor  must  you  ever  ask  me  the  question  if  I  suc- 
ceed, nor  must  you  ever  ask  me  for  an  account  of  the 
money  if  I  fail."  The  Englishman  decided  to  hazard  the 
hundred  pounds.  He  did  so,  and  heard  not  another  wor^ 
of  the  matter.  For  half  a  year  and  more  the  Advocate 
made  no  sign,  and  never  once  **  took  on,"  in  any  way-  to 
have  the  subject  on  his  mind.  The  Englishman  was  then 
obliged  to  change  his  residence  to  another  and  more 
famous  to  WE  in  the  north  of  Italy.  He  parted  from  the 
poor  prisoner  with  a  sorrowful  heart,  as  from  a  doomed 
man  for  whom  there  was  no  release  but  Death. 

The  Englishman  lived  in  his  new  place  of  abode  an- 
other half-year  and  more,  and  had  no  tidings  of  the 
wretched  prisoner.  At  length,  one  day,  he  received 
from  the  Advocate  a  cool,  concise,  mysterious  note,  to 
this  effect  :  *'If  you  still  wish  to  bestow  that  benefit 
upon  the  man  in  whom  you  were  once  interested,  send  me 
fifty  pounds  more,  and  I  think  it  can  be  insured.-"  Now,^ 
the  Englishman  had  long  settlecf  in  his  mind  that  the* 
Advocate  was  a  heartless  sharper,  who  had  preyed  upon 
his  credulity  and  his  interest  in  an  unfortunate  sufferer. 
So  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  dry  answer,  giving  the  Ad- 
vocate to  understand  that  he  was  wiser  now  than  he  had 
been  formerly,  and  that  no  more  money  was  extractable 
from  his  pocket. 

He  lived  outside  the  city  gates,  some  mile  or  two  from 
the  post-office,  and  was  accustomed  to  walk  into  the  city 
with  his  letters,  and  post  them  himself.  On  a  lovely 
spring  day,  when  the  sky  was  exquisitely  blue,  and  the 
sea  divinely  beautiful,  he  took  his  usual  walk,  carrying 
this  letter  to  the  Advocate  in  his  pocket.  As  he  went 
along,  his  gentle  heart  was  much  moved  by  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  prospect,  and  by  the  thought  of  the  slowly 
dying  prisoner  chained  to  the  bedstead,  for  whom  the 
universe  had  no  delights.  As  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  city  where  he  was  to  post  the  letter^  he  became 
very  uneasy  in  his  mind.  He  debated  with  himself,  was 
it  remotely  possible,  after  all,  that  this  sum  of  fifty 
pounds  could  restore  the  fellow-creature  whom  he  pitied 
so  much,  and  for  whom  he  had  striven  so  hard,  to  liber- 
ty? He  was  not  a  conventionally  rich  Englishman, — 
very  far  from  that, — but  he  had  a  spare  fifty  pounds  at 
the  banker'^.  He  resolved  to  risk  it.  Without  doubt 
God  has  recompensed  him  for  the  resolution. 

He  went  to  the  banker's,  and  got  a  bill  for  the  amount, 
and  enclosed  it  in  a  letter  to  the  Advocate  that  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen.    He  simply  told  the  Advocate  that  he 


THE  UNCOIVIMERCIAL  TKAVELLKK. 


539 


was  quite  a  poor  man,  and  that  he  was  sensible  it  might 
be  a  great  weakness  in  him  to  part  with  so  much  money 
on  the  faith  of  so  vague  a  communication  ;  but  that  there 
it  was,  and  that  he  prayed  the  Advocate  to  make  a  good 
ikse  of  it.  If  he  did  otherwise,  no  good  could  ever  come 
of  it,  and  it  would  lie  heavy  on  his  soul  one  day. 

Within  a  week  the  Englishman  was  sitting  at  his 
breakfast,  when  he  heard  some  suppressed  sounds  of 
agitation  on  ttie  staircase,  and  Giovanni  Carlavero  leaped 
Into  the  room,  and  fell  upon  his  breast,  a  free  man  I 

Conscious  of  having  wronged  the  Advocate  in  his  own 
thoughts,  the  Englishman  wrote  him  an  earnest  and 
grateful  letter,  avowing  the  fact,  and  entreating  him  to 
isonfide  by  what  means  and  through  what  agency  he  had 
succeeded  so  well.  The  Advocate  returned  for  answer 
through  the  post:  There  are  many  things,  as  you 
know,  in  this  Italy  of  ours,  that  are  safest  and  best  not 
even  spoken  of, — far  less  written  of.  We  may  meet 
Some  day,  and  then  I  may  tell  you  what  you  want  to 
know  ;  not  here  and  now."  But  the  two  never  did  meet 
again.  The  Advocate  was  dead  when  the  Englishman 
^ave  me  my  trust ;  and  how  the  man  had  been  set  free 
remained  as  great  a  mystery  to  the  Englishman,  and 
to  the  man  himself,  as  it  was  to  me. 

But  I  knew  this  : — here  was  the  man,  this  sultry  night, 
on  his  knees  at  my  feet,  because  I  was  the  Englishman's 
friend  ;  here  were  his  tears  upon  my  dress  ;  here  were 
his  sobs  choking  his  utterance  ;  here  were  his  kisses 
on  my  hands,  because  they  had  touched  the  hands 
tlhat  had  w^orked  out  his  release.  He  had  no  need  to 
4ell  me  it  would  be  happiness  to  him  to  die  for  his  bene- 
factor ;  I  doubt  if  I  ever  saw  real,  sterling,  fervent 
gratitude  of  soul  before  or  since. 

He  was  much  watched  and  suspected,  he  said,  and 
had  had  enough  to  do  to  keep  himself  out  of  trouble. 
This,  and  his  not  having  prospered  in  his  worldly  affairs, 
had  led  to  his  having  failed  in  his  usual  communications 
to  the  Englishman  for — as  I  now  remember  the  period- 
some  two  or  three  years.  But  his  prospects  were 
brighter,  and  his  wife,  who  had  been  very  ill,  had  re^ 
eovered.  and  his  fever  had  leit  him,  and  he  had  bought 
a  little  vineyard,  and  would  I  carry  to  his  benefActOT 
the  first  of  its  wine?  Ay,  that  I  would  (I  told  him  with 
enthusiasm),  and  not  a  drop  of  it  should  be  spilled  or 
lost ! 

He  had  cautiously  closed  the  door  before  speaking  ol 
himself,  and  had  talked  with  such  excess  of  emotion, 
and  in  a  provincial  Italian  so  difficult  to  understand 
that  I  had  more  than  once  been  obliged  to  stop  him,  and 
beg  him  to  have  compassion  on  me,  and  be  slower  and 
calmer.     By  degrees,  he  became  so,  and  tranquilly 


540  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


walked  back  witli  me  to  tlie  "hotel.  There  I  sat  down 
before  I  went  to  bed,  and  wrote  a  faithful  account  of 
him  to  the  Englishman  ;  which  I  concluded  by  saying 
that  I  would  bring  the  wine  home,  against  any  difficul- 
ties,  every  drop. 

Early  next  morning,  when  I  came  out  at  the  hotel 
door  to  pursue  my  journey,  I  found  my  friend  waiting 
with  one  of  those  immense  bottles  in  which  the  Italian 
peasants  store  their  wine, — a  bottle  holding  some  half- 
dozen  gallons,  bound  round  with  basket-work  for  greater 
safety  on  the  journey.  I  see  him  now,  in  the  bright 
sunlight,  tears  of  gratitude  in  his  eyes,  proudly  invito 
ing  my  attention  to  this  corpulent  bottle.  (At  the  street 
corner  hard  by,  two  high-flavoured,  able-bodied  monks, 
— pretending  to  talk  together,  but  keeping  their  four 
evil  eyes  upon  us.) 

How  the  bottle  had  been  got  there  did  not  appear; 
but  the  difficulty  of  getting  it  into  the  ramshackle  'vet- 
turino  carriage  in  which  I  was  departing  was  so  great, 
and  it  took  up  so  much  room  when  it  was  got  in,  that  \ 
elected  to  sit  outside.  The  last  I  saw  of  Giovanni  Car- 
lavero  was  his  running  through  the  town  by  the  side  of 
the  jingling  wheels,  clasping  my  hand  as  I  stretched  it 
down  from  the  box,  charging  me  with  a  thousand  last 
loving  and  dutiful  messages  to  his  dear  patron,  anci 
finally  looking  in  at  the  bottle,  as  it  reposed  inside,  with 
an  admiration  of  its  honourable  way  of  travelling  that 
was  beyond  measure  delightful. 

And  now,  what  disquiet  of  mind  this  dearly  beloved 
and  highly  treasured  Bottle  began  to  cost  me,  no  man 
knows.  It  was  my  precious  charge  through  a  long  tour ; 
and,  for  hundreds  of  miles,  I  never  had  it  off  my  mind  by 
day  or  by  night.  Over  bad  roads — and  they  were  many 
— I  clung  to  it  with  affectionate  desperation.  Up 
mountains,  I  looked  in  at  it,  and  saw  it  helplessly  tilt- 
ing over  on  its  back,  with  terror.  At  innumerable  inn 
doors,  when  the  w^eather  was  bad,  I  was  obliged  to  b^ 
put  into  my  vehicle  before  the  Bottle  could  be  got  in, 
and  was  obliged  to  have  the  Bottle  lifted  out  before 
human  aid  could  come  near  me.  The  Imp  of  the  s&m3 
name,  except  that  his  associations  were  all  evil  and  these 
associations  were  all  good,  would  have  been  a  less  trouble- 
some travelling  companion.  I  might  have  served  Mr, 
Cruikshank  as  a  subject  for  a  new  illustration  of  the 
miseries  of  the  Bottle.  The  National  Temperance  So- 
ciety  might  have  made  a  powerful  Tract  of  me. 

The  suspicions  that  attached  to  this  innocent  Bottle 
greatly  aggravated  my  difficulties.  It  was  like  the 
apple-pie  in  the  child's  book.  Parma  pouted  at  it, 
Modena  mocked  it,  Tuscany  tackled  it,  Naples  nibbled 
It.  Rome  refused  it.  Austria  accused  it.  Soldiers  sus- 


THE  UNCOiMMEiUJlAL  TRAVELLER. 


541 


pected  it,  Jesuits  jobbed  it.  I  composed  a  neat  Oration, 
developing  my  inoffensive  intention  in  connection  with 
this  bottle,  and  delivered  it  in  an  infinity  of  guard- 
houses, at  a  multitude  of  town  gates,  and  on  every 
drawbridge,  angle,  and  rampart  of  a  complete  system  of 
fortifications.  Fifty  times  a  day  I  got  down  to  harangue 
an  infuriated  soldiery  about  the  Bottle,  Through  the 
tllthy  degradation  of  the  abject  and  vile  Roman  States, 
i  had  as  much  difficulty  in  working  my  way  with  the 
Jottle,  as  if  it  had  bottled  up  a  complete  system  of 
heretical  theology.  In  the  Neapolitan  country,  where 
everybody  was  a  spy,  a  soldier,  a  priest,  or  a  lazzarone, 
the  shameless  beggars  of  all  four  denominations  inces- 
santly pounced  on  the  Bottle,  and  made  it  a  pretext  for 
extorting  money  from  me.  Quires — quires  do  I  say? 
Reams — of  forms  illegibly  printed  on  whitey-brown  paper 
were  filled  up  about  the  Bottle,  and  it  was  the  subject 
of  more  stamping  and  standing  than  I  had  ever  seen  be- 
fore. In  consequence  of  which  haze  of  sand,  perhaps, 
jt  was  always  irregular,  and  always  latent  with  dismal 
penalities  of  going  back  or  not  going  forward,  w?iich 
were  only  to  be  abated  by  the  silver  crossing  of  a  base 
hand,  poked,  shirtless,  out  of  a  ragged  uniform  sleeve. 
Under  all  discouragements,  however,  I  stuck  to  my 
iBottle,  and  held  firm  to  my  resolution  that  every  drop 
of  its  contents  should  reach  the  Bottle's  destination. 

The  latter  refinement  cost  me  a  separate  heap  of  trou- 
bles on  its  own  separate  account.  What  corkscrews  did 
I  see  the  military  power  bring  out  against  that  bottle  ; 
what  gimlets,  spikes,  divining-rods,  gauges, and  unknown 
tests  and  instruments  1  At  some  places  they  persisted  in 
declaring  that  the  wine  must  not  be  passed  without  being 
opened  and  tasted  ;  I,  pleading  to  the  contrary,  used  then 
to  argue  the  question,  seated  on  the  Bottle,  lest  they 
should  open  it  in  spite  of  me.  In  the  southern  parts  of 
Italy,  more  violent  shrieking, face-making,  and  gestifculat- 
ing,  greater  vehemence  of  speech  and  countenance  and 
action,  went  on  about  that  Bottle  than  would  attend  fifty 
murderers  in  a  northern  latitude.  It  raised  important 
functionaries  out  of  their  beds  in  the  dead  of  night.  I 
have  known  half  a  dozen  military  lanterns  to  disperse 
themselves  at  all  points  of  a  great  sleeping  Piazza,  each 
lantern  summoning  some  official  creature  to  get  up,  put 
on  his  cocked  hat  instantly,  and  come  and  stop  the  Bottle. 
It  was  characteristic  that,  while  this  innocent  Bottle  had 
such  immense  difficulty  in  getting  from  little  town  to 
town,  Signor  Mazzini  and  the  fiery  cross  were  traversing 
Italy  from  end  to  end. 

Still  I  stuck  to  my  Bottle,  like  any  fine  old  English 
gentleman  all  of  the  olden  time.    The  more  the  Bottle 


542  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENSc 


was  interfered  with,  the  stanch er  I  became  (if  possible) 
in  my  first  determination  that  my  countryman  Should  have 
it  delivered  to  him  intact,  as  the  man  whom  he  had  so 
nobly  restored  to  life  and  liberty  had  delivered  it  to  me. 
If  ever  I  had  been  obstinate  in  my  days, — and  I  may  have 
been  say  once  or  twice, — I  was  obstinate  about  the  Bottle. 
But  I  made  it  a  rule  always  to  keep  a  pocketful  of  small 
coin  at  its  service,  and  never  to  be  out  of  temper  in  its 
cause.  Thus  I  and  the  Bottle  made  our  way.  Once  we 
had  a  breakdown  ;  rather  a  bad  breakdown,  on  a  steep, 
high  place,  with  the  sea  below  us,  ou  a  tempestuous 
evening  when  it  blew  great  guns.  We  were  driving 
four  wild  horses  abreast,  Southern  fashion,  and  there 
was  some  little  difficulty  in  stopping  them.  I  was  outside, 
and  not  thrown  off,  but  no  words  "can  describe  my  feel- 
ings  when  I  saw  the  Bottle — travelling  inside,  as  usual— 
burst, the  door  open,  and  roll  obesely  out  into  the  road.  A 
blessed  Bottle  with  a  cha)\^ed  existence,  he  took  no  hurt, 
and  we  repaired  damage,  and  went  on  triumphant. 

A  thousand  representations  were  made  to  me  that  the 
Bottle  must  be  left  at  this  place  or  that,  and  called  for 
again.  I  never  yielded  to  one  of  them,  and  never  parted 
from  the  Bottle  on  any  pretense,  consideration,  threat, 
or  entreaty.  I  had  no  faith  in  any  official  receipt  for  the 
Bottle,  and  nothing  would  induce  me  to  accept  one. 
These  unmanageable  politics  at  last  brought  me  and  the 
Bottle,  still  triumphant,  to  Genoa.  There  I  took  a  tender 
and  reluctant  leave  of  him  for  a  few  weeks,  and  consigned 
him  to  a  trusty  English  captain  to  be  conveyed  to  the 
Port  of  London  by  sea. 

While  the  Bottle  was  on  his  voyage  to  England,  I  read 
the  Shipping  Intelligence  as  anxiously  as  if  1  had  been 
an  underwriter.  There  was  some  stormy  weather  after 
1  myself  had  got  to  England  by  way  of  Switzerland  and 
France,  and  my  mind  greatly  misgave  me  that  the  Bottle 
might  be  wrecked.  At  last,  to  my  great  joy,  I  received 
notice  of  his  safe  arrival,  and  immediately  went  down  to 
Saint  Catharine's  Docks,  and  found  him  in  a  state  of 
honourable  captivity  in  the  Custom  House. 

The  wine  was  mere  vinegar  when  I  set  it  dow^n  before 
the  generous  Englishman, — probably  it  had  been  some- 
thing like  vinegar  when  1  took  it  up  from  Giovanni  Car- 
lavero, — but  not  a  drop  of  it  was  spilled  or  gone.  And 
the  Englishman  told  me,  with  much  emotion  in  his  face 
and  voice,  that  he  had  never  tasted  wine  that  seemed  to 
him  so  sweet  and  sound.  And  long  afterwards  the  Bottle 
graced  his  table.  And  the  last  time  I  saw  him  in  this 
world  that  misses  him,  he  took  me  aside  in  a  crowd,  to 
say,  with  his  amiable  smile,  "  We  were  talking  of  you 
only  to-day  at  dinner,  and  I  wished  you  had.  been  there,, 
^or  I  had  some  Claret  up  in  Carlavero's  Bottle/* 

END  OF  "THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER." 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


548 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TOM  TIDDLEE'S  GEOUm 
[1861.] 

IN  THREE  CHAPTERS.^ 


I. 

Picking  up  Soot  and  Cinders. 

hm>  why  Tom  Tiddler's  ground  asked  the  Travel 
ler. 

"  Because  he  scatters  halfpence  to  Tramps  and  such^ 
like,'*  returned  the  Landlord,  *'and  of  course  they  pick 
'em  up.  And  this  being  done  on  his  own  land  (which  it 
is  his  own  land,  you  observe,  a^id  where  his  family's  be, 
fore  him),  why  it  is  but  regarding  the  halfpence  as  gold 
and  silver,  and  turning  the  ownership  of  the  property  a 
bit  round  your  finger,  and  their  you  have  the  name  of 
the  children's  game  complete.  And  it's  appropriate  too," 
said  the  Landlord,  with  his  favorite  action  of  stopping  a 
little,  to  look  across  the  table  out  of  vacancy,  under  the 
window-blind  which  was  half  drawn  down.  **Least» 
wise  it  has  been  so  considered  by  many  gentlemen  which 
have  partook  of  chops  and  tea  in  the  present  humbly 
parlour." 

The  Traveller  was  partaking  of  chops  and  tea  in  th^ 
present  humble  parlour,  and  the  Landlord's  shot  wa^ 
fired  obliquely  at  him. 

"  AiJd  you  call  him  a  Hermit?  "  said  the  Traveller. 

**  They  call  him  such,"  returned  the  Landlord,  eyad. 
ing  personal  responsibility;  *'he  is  in  general  so  con- 
sidered." 

What  is  a  Hermit  ?  "  asked  the  Traveller. 
**What  is  it?"  repeated  the  Landlord,  drawing  his 
hand  across  his  chin. 
Yes,  what  is  it?" 
The  Landlord  stooped  again,  to  get  a  more  comprehen. 
sive  view  of  vacancy  under  the  window-blind,  and — witl^ 


*  The  original  has  geven  chapters  ;  but  those  not  printed  here  were 
not  written  by  Mr.  Dickens. 


544 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


an  asphyxiated  appearance  on  him  as  one  accustomed  to 
definition — made  no  answer. 

I'll  tell  you  what  I  suppose  it  to  be,"  said  the  Travo 
eller.       An  abominably  dirty  thing." 

Mr.  Mopes  is  dirty,  it  cannot  be  denied,"  said  the 
Landlord. 

Intolerably  conceited." 

"  Mr.  Mopes  is  vain  of  the  life  he  leads,  some  do  say/' 
replied  the  Landlord,  as  another  concession. 

''A  slothful,  unsavory,  nasty  reversal  of  the  laws  of 
human  nature,"  said  the  Traveller;  **and  for  the  sake 
of  God's  working  world  and  its  wholesomeness,  both 
moral  and  physical,  I  would  put  the  thing  on  the  tread- 
mill (if  I  had  my  way)  wherever  I  found  it ;  whether  on 
a  pillar,  or  in  a  hole  ;  whether  on  Tom  Tiddler's  ground, 
or  the  Pope  of  Rome's  ground,  or  a  Hindoo  fakeer's 
ground,  or  any  other  ground. 

"  I  don't  know  about  putting  Mr.  Mopes  on  the  tread- 
mill," said  the  Landlord,  shaking  his  head  very  seriously. 

There  ain't  a  doubt  but  what  he  has  got  landed  pro- 
perty." 

''How  far  may  it  be  to  this  said  Tom  Tiddler's 
ground?"  asked  the  Traveller. 

Put  it  at  five  mile,"  returned  the  Landlord. 

''Well  !  when  I  have  done  my  breakfast,"  said  the 
Traveller,  "I'll  go  there.  I  came  over  here  this  morn- 
ing, to  find  it  out  and  see  it." 

"  Many  does,"  observed  the  Landlord. 

The  conversation  passed,  in  the  Midsummer  weather 
of  no  remote  year  of  grace,  down  among  the  pleasant 
dales  and  trout-streams  of  a  green  English  county.  No 
matter  what  county.  Enough  that  you  may  hunt  there, 
shoot  there,  fish  there,  traverse  long  grass-grown  Roman 
roads  there,  open  ancient  barrows  there,  see  many  & 
square  mile  of  cultivated  land  there,  and  hold  Arcadian 
talk  with  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride,  who 
will  tell  you  (if  you  want  to  know)  how  pastoral  house- 
keeping is  done  on  nine  shillings  a  week. 

Mr.  Traveller  sat  at  his  breakfast  in  the  little'  sanded 
parlor  of  the  Peal  of  Bells  village  alehouse,  with  the 
dew  and  dust  of  an  early  walk  upon  his  shoes — an  early 
walk  by  road  and  meadow  and  coppice,  that  had  sprin- 
kled him  bountifully  with  little  blades  of  grass,  and 
scraps  of  new  hay,  and  with  leaves  both  young  and  old, 
and  with  other  such  fragrant  tokens  of  the  freshness  and 
wealth  of  summer.  The  window  through  which  the 
landlord  had  concentrated  his  gaze  upon  vacancy  was 
shaded,  because  the  morning  sun  was  hot  and  bright  on 
the  village  street.  The  village  street  was  like  most 
other  village  streets  ;  wid*  for  its  height,  silent  for  its 
Bize,  and  drowsy  in  the  dullest  degree.    The  quietest 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


545 


little  dwellings  with  tlie  largest  of  window- shutters  (to 
shut  up  Nothing  as  carefully  as  if  it  were  the  Mint,  or 
the  Bank  of  England)  had  called  in  the  Doctor's  house 
so  suddenly,  that  his  brass  door-plate  and  three  stories 
stood  among  them  as  conspicuous  and  different  as  the 
Doctor  himself  in  his  broadcloth,  among  the  smock 
frocks  of  his  patients.  The  village  residences  seem  to 
.  have  gone  to  law  with  a  similar  absence  of  consideration, 
for  a  score  of  weak  little  lath-and-pl aster  cabins  clung 
in  confusion  about  the  Attorney's  red-brick  house,  which, 
with  glaring  doorsteps  and  a  most  terrific  scraper,  seemed 
to  serve  all  manner  of  ejectments  upon  them.  They 
were  as  various  as  labourers  —  high -shouldered,  wry- 
necked,  one-eyed,  goggle-eyed,  squinting,  bow-legged, 
knock-kneed,  rheumatic,  crazy.  Some  of  the  small 
tradesmen's  houses,  such  as  the  crockery-shop  and  the 
harness-maker's,  had  a  Cyclops  window  in  the  middle  of 
the  gable,  within  an  inch  or  two  of  its  apex,  suggesting 
that  some  forlorn  rural  'Prentice  must  wriggle  himself 
into  that  apartment  horizontally,  when  he  retired  to  rest, 
after  the  manner  of  the  worm.  So  beautiful  in  its  abun- 
dance was  the  surrounding  country,  and  so  lean  and 
scant  the  village  that  one  might  have  thought  the  village 
had  sown  and  planted  everything  it  once  possessed,  to 
convert  the  same  into  crops.  This  would  account  for  the 
bareness  of  the  little  shops,  the  bareness  of  the  few 
boards  and  trestles  designed  for  market  purposes  in  a 
corner  of  the  street,  the  bareness  of  the  obsolete  Inn  and 
Inn  Yard,  with  the  ominous  inscription,  Excise  Office," 
not  yet  faded  out  from  the  gateway,  as  indicating  the 
very  last  thing  that  poverty  could  get  rid  of.  This 
would  also  account  for  the  determined  abandonment  of 
the  village  by  one  stray  dog,  fast  lessening  in  .the  per- 
spective where  the  white  posts  and  the  pond  were,  and 
would  explain  his  conduct  on  the  hypothesis  that  he  was 
going  (through  the  act  of  suicide)  to  convert  himself  into 
manure,  and  become  a  part  proprietor  in  turnips  or 
mangold-  w  urzel . 

Mr.  Traveller  having  finished  his  breakfast  and  paid 
his  moderate  score,  walked  out  to  the  threshold  of  the 
Peal  of  Bells,  and  thence  directed  by  the  pointing  finger 
of  his  host,  betoook  himself  towards  the  ruined  hermi- 
tage  of  Mr.  Mopes  the  hermit. 

For  Mr.  Mopes,  by  suffering  everything  abovit  him  to 
go  to  ruin,  and  by  dressing  himself  in  a  blanket  and 
skewer,  and  by  steeping  himself  in  soot  and  grease  and 
other  nastiness,  had  acquired  great  renown  in  all  that 
country-side — far  greater  renown  than  he  could  ever 
have  won  for  himself,  if  his  career  had  been  that  of  any 
ordinary  Christian,  or  decent  Hottentot.  He  had  even 
blanketed  and  skewered  and  sooted  and  greased  himself 
RR  Vol.  18 


546 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


into  the  London  papers.  And  it  was  curious  to  find,  as 
Mr.  Traveller  found  by  stopping  for  a  new  direction  at 
this  farm-house  or  at  that  cottage  as  he  went  along,  with 
how  much  accuracy  the  morbid  Mopes  had  counted  on 
the  weakness  of  his  neighbours  to  embellish  him.  A 
mist  of  home  brewed  marvel  and  romance  surrounded 
Mopes,  in  which  (as  in  all  fogs)  the  real  proportions  of 
the  real  object  were  extravagantly  heightened.  He  had 
murdered  his  beautiful  beloved  in  a  fit  of  jealousy,  and 
was  doing  penance  ;  he  had  made  a  vow  under  the  influ-; 
ence  of  grief  ;  he  had  made  a  vow  under  the  influence 
of  a  fatal  accident  ;  he  had  made  a  vow  under  the  influ- 
ence of  religion  ;  he  had  made  a  vow  under  the  influence 
of  drink  ;  he  had  made  a  vow  under  the  influence  of  dis- 
appointment ;  he  had  never  made  any  vow,  but  had  got 
led  into  it  by  the  porssession  of  a  mighty  and  most  aw- 
ful secret  ;  he  was  enormously  rich,  he  was  stupen- 
dously charitable,  he  was  profoundly  learned,  he  saw 
spectres,  he  knew  and  could  do  all  kinds  of  wonders. 
Some  said  he  went  out  eveiy  night,  and  was  met  by  ter- 
rified wayfarers  stalking  along  dark  roads  ;  others  said 
he  never  went  out,  some  knew  his  penance  to  be  nearty 
expired,  others  had  positive  information  that  his  seclu- 
sion was  not  a  penance  at  all,  and  would  expire  but  with 
himself.  Even,  as  to  the  easy  facts  of  how  old  he  was, 
or  how  long  he  had  held  verminous  occupation  of  his 
blanket  and  skewer,  no  consistent  information  was  to  be 
got,  from  those  who  must  know  if  they  would.  He  was 
represented  as  being  all  the  ages  between  nve-and-twenty 
and  sixty,  and  as  being  a  hermit  seven  years,  twelve, 
twenty,  thirty — though  twenty,  on  the  whole,  appeared 
the  favourite  term. 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Mr.  Traveller.  ''  At  any  rate,  let 
us  see  what  a  real  Hermit  looks  like."- 

So  Mr.  Traveller  went  on,  and  on,  and  on,  until  he 
came  to  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground. 

It  was  a  nook  in  a  rustic  by-road,  which  the  genius 
of  Mopes  had  laid  waste  as  completely  as  if  he  had  been 
born  an  Emperor  and  a  conqueror.  Its  centre  object  was 
a  dwelling-house,  sufficiently  substantial,  all  the  win= 
dow-glass  of  which  had  been  long  ago  abolished  by  the 
surprising  genius  of  Mopes,  and  all  the  windows  of 
which  were  barred  across  with  rough  split  logs  of  trees 
nailed  over  them  on  the  outside.  A  rickyard,  hip-high 
in  vegetables  rankness  and  ruin,  contained  outbuildings^ 
from  which  the  thatch  had  lightly  fluttered  away,  on  all 
the  winds  of  all  the  seasons  of  the  year,  and  from  which 
the  planks  and  beams  had  heavily  dropped  and  rot- 
ted. The  frosts  and  damps  of  winter,  and  the  heat  of 
summer,  had  warped  what  wreck  remained,  so  that  not 
ft  post  or  board  retained  the  position  it  was  meant  to 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


647 


hold,  but  everything  was  twisted  from  its  purpose,  like 
its  owner,  and  de^^raded  and  debased.  In  this  homestead 
of  the  sluggard,  behind  the  ruined  hedge,  and  sinking 
away  among  the  ruined  grass  and  the  nettles,  were  the 
last  perishing  fragments  of  certain  ricks,  which  had 
gradually  mildewed  and  collapsed,  until  they  looked  like 
mounds  of  rotten  honeycomb  or  dirty  sponge.  Tom 
Tiddler's  Ground  could  even  show  its  ruined  water  ;  for, 
there  was  a  slimy  pond  into  which  a  tree  or  two  had  fal- 
len— one  soppy  trunk  and  branches  lay  across  it  then — 
which  in  its  accumulation  of  stagnant  weed,  and  in  its 
black  decomposition,  and  in  all  its  foulness  and  filth,  was 
almost  comforting,  regarded  as  the  only  water  that  could 
have  reflected  the  shameful  place  without  seeming  pol- 
luted by  that  low  office. 

Mr.  Traveller  looked  all  around  him  on  Tom  Tiddler's 
Ground,  and  his  glance  at  last  encountered  a  dusty 
Tinker  lying  among  the  weeds  and  rank  grass,  in  the 
shade  of  the  dwelling-house.  A  rough  walking-staff  lay 
on  the  ground  by  his  side,  and  his  head  rested  on  a 
small  wallet.  He  met  Mr.  Traveller's  eye  without  lifting 
up  his  head,  merely  depressing  his  chin  a  little  (for  he 
was  lying  on  his  back)  to  get  a  better  view  of  him. 

''Good  day  !"  said  Mr.  Traveller. 

*'  Same  to  you,  if  you  like  it,"  returned  the  Tinker. 
IJon't  you  like  it  ?  "    It's  a  very  fine  day." 

*'  I  ain't  particular  in  weather,"  returned  the  Tinker, 
with  a  yawn. 

Mr.  Traveller  had  walked  up  to  where  he  lay,  and 
was  looking  down  at  him.  ''This  is  a  curious  place," 
said  Mr.  Traveller. 

"Ay,  I  suppose  sol"  returned  the  Tinker.  "Tom 
Tiddler's  Ground,  they  call  this." 

"  Are  you  well  acquainted  with  it  ?  " 

"Never  saw  it  afore  to-day,"  said  the  Tinker,  with 
another  yawn,  "  and  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  it  again. 
There  was  a  man  here  just  now,  told  me  what  it  was 
called.  If  you  want  to  see  Tom  himself,  you  must  go 
in  at  the  gate."  He  faintly  indicated  with  his  chin 
a  little  mean  ruin  of  a  wooden  gate  at  the  side  of  th® 
house. 

"  Have  you  seen  Tom  ?  " 

"  No,  and  I  ain't  par  tickler  to  see  him.  I  can  see  a 
dirty  man  anywhere. " 

"  He  does  not  live  in  the  house,  then?"  said  Mr.  Tra- 
veller, casting  his  eyes  upon  the  house  anew. 

"  The  man  said,"  returned  the  Tinker;,  rather  irritably, 
'—"him  as  was  here  just  now — '  this  what  you're  a  ly- 
ing on,  mate,  is  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground.  And  if  you 
want  to  see  Tom,  '  he  says,  '  you  must  go  in  at  that  gate.' 


548 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  man  came  out  at  that  g-ate  himself,  and  he  ought 
to  know." 

Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Traveller. 

Though,  perhaps,"  exclaimed  the  Tinker,  so  struck 
by  the  brightness  of  his  own  idea,  that  it  had  the  elec- 
tric effect  upon  him  of  causing  him  to  lift  up  his  hesid. 
an  inch  or  so,  perhaps  he  was  a  liar  !  He  told  some 
rum'uns — him  as  was  here  just  now,  did  about  this 
place  of  Tom's.  Ho  says — him  as  was  here  just  now— r 
'  When  Tom  shut  up  the  house,  mate,  to  go  to  rack,  the 
beds  was  left,  all  made,  like  as  if  somebody  was  a-going 
to  sleep  in  every  bed.  And  if  you  was  to  walk  through 
the  bedrooms  now,  you'd  see  the  ragged  mouldy  bed^ 
clothes  a  heaving  and  a  heaving  like  seas.  And  a-heav- 
ing  and  a-heaving  with  what?'  he  says.  'Why,  with 
the  rats  under  'em. '  " 

''I  wish  I  had  seen  that  man,"  Mr.  Traveller  re^ 
marked. 

You'd  have  been  welcome  to  see  him  instead  of  me 
seeing  him,"  growled  the  Tinker  ;  for  he  was  a  long- 
winded  one. " 

Not  with|)ut  a  sense  of  injury  in  the  remembrance, 
the  Tinker  gloomily  closed  his  eyes.  Mr.  Traveller, 
deeming  the  Tinker  a  short-winded  one,  from  whom  no 
further  breath  of  information  was  to  be  derived,  betook 
himself  to  the  gate. 

Swung  upon  its  rusty  hinges,  it  admitted  him  into  a 
yard  in  which  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  an  out- 
house attached  to  the  ruined  building,  with  a  barred 
window  in  it.  As  there  were  traces  of  many  recent  foot- 
steps under  this  window,  and  as  it  was  a  low  window, 
and  unglazed,  Mr.  Traveller  made  bold  to  peep  within 
the  bars.  And  there  to  be  sure  he  had  a  real  live  Her- 
mit before  him,  and  could  judge  how  the  real  dead  Her- 
mits used  to  look. 

He  was  lying  on  a  bank  of  soot  and  cinders,  on  the 
floor,  in  front  of  a  rusty  fireplace.  There  was  nothing 
else  in  the  dark  little  kitchen,  or  scullery,  or  whatever 
his  den  had  been  originally  ased  as,  but  a  table  with  a 
litter  of  old  bottles  on  it.  A  rat  made  a  clatter  among 
these  bottles,  jumped  down,  and  ran  over  the  real  live 
Hermit  on  his  way  to  his  hole,  or  the  man  in  his  hole 
would  not  havo  been  so  easily  discernible.  Tickled  in 
the  face  by  the  rat's  tail,  the  owner  of  Tom  Tiddler's 
Ground  opened  his  eyes,  saw  Mr.  Traveller,  r  -^rted  up, 
and  sprang  to  the  window. 

Humph  !  "  thought  Mr.  Traveller,  retiring  a  pace  or 
two  from  the  bars.  A  compound  of  Newgate,  Bed- 
lam, a  debtors'  prison  in  the  worst  time,  a  chimnev- 
sweep,  a  mud- lark,  and  the  Noble  Savage  1  A  nice  oi^ 
family,  the  Hermit  family.    Hah  !  " 


MISCELLixNEOUS. 


549 


Mr.  Traveller  thought  this,  as  he  silently  confronted 
the  sooty  object  in  the  blanket  and  skewer  (in  ber 
truth  it  wore  nothing  else),  with  the  matted  hair  and  the 
staring  eyes.  Further,  Mr.  Trav  Her  the  ught,  as  the 
eyes  surveyed  him  with  a  very  obvious  curiosity  in  as- 
certaining the  effect  they  produced  Vanity,  vanity, 
vanity  !    Verily,  all  is  vanity  I  " 

What  is  your  name,  sir,  and  where  do  you  come 
from?"  asked  Mr.  Mopes  the  Hermit — with  an  air  of 
authority,  but  in  the  ordinary  human  speech  of  one  wh^ 
has  been  to  school. 

Mr.  Traveller  answered  the  inquiries. 
Did  you  come  here,  sir,  to  see  mef" 
I  did.  I  heard  of  you,  and  I  came  to  see  you. — I 
know  you  like  to  be  seen."  Mr.  Traveller  coolly  threw 
the  last  words  in,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  forestall  an 
affectation  of  resentment  or  objection  that  he  saw  rising 
beneath  the  grease  and  grime  of  the  face.  They  had 
their  effect. 

So,"  said  the  Hermit,  after  a  momentary  silence,  un- 
elasping  the  bars  by  which  he  had  previously  held,  and 
seating  himself  behind  them  on  the  ledge  of  he  win- 
dow, with  his  bare  legs  and  feet  crouched  up,  "  you 
know  I  like  to  be  seen  ?  " 

Mr.  Traveller  looked  about  him  for  something  to  rit 
on,  and,  observing  a  billet  of  wood  in  a  corner,  brought 
it  near  the  window.  Deliberately  seating  himself  upon 
it,  he  answered,    Just  so.'' 

Each  looked  at  the  other,  and  each  appeared  to  take 
some  pains  to  get  the  measure  of  the  other. 

"  Then  vou  have  come  to  ask  me  why  I  lead  this  life," 
said  the  Hermit,  frowning  in  a  stormy  manner. 
never  tell  that  to  any  human  being.    I  will  not  be  asked 
that." 

"  Certainly  you  will  not  be  asked  that  by  me,''  said 
Mr.  Traveller,  for  I  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to 
know." 

"  You  are  an  uncouth  man,"  said  Mr.  Mopes  the  Her- 
mit. 

You  are  another,"  said  Mr.  Traveller. 
The  Hermit,  who  was  plainly  in  the  habit  of  overaw- 
ing his  visitors  with  the  novelty  of  his  filth  and  his 
blanket  and  skewer,  glared  at  his  present  visitor  in  some 
discomfiture  and  surprise,  as  if  he  had  taken  aim  at  him 
with  a  sure  gun,  and  his  piece  had  missed  fire. 

Why  do  you  come  here  at  all  ? "  he  asked  after  a 
pause. 

"  Upon  my  life,"  said  Mr.  Traveller,  I  was  made  to 
ask  myself  that  very  question  only  a  few  minutes  ago — 
by  a  Tinker  too." 

As  he  glanced  towards  the  gate  in  saying  it,  the  Her- 
mit glanced  in  that  direction  likewise. 


550  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"Yes.  He  is  lying  on  liis  back  in  the  sunlight  out- 
side," said  Mr.  Traveller,  as  if  he  had  been  asked  con- 
cerning the  man,  and  he  won't  come  in  ;  for  he  says — 
and  really  very  reasonably  — '  What  should  I  come  in 
for  ?    I  can  see  a  dirty  man  anyvi^here.'  " 

You  are  an  insolent  person.  Go  avray  from  my  pre- 
mises. Go  ! "  said  the  Hermit,  in  an  imperious  and 
angry  tone. 

Come,  come  V  returned  Mr,  Traveller,  quite  undis- 
turbed. This  is  a  little  too  much.  You  are  going  to 
call  yourself  clean  ?  Look  at  your  legs.  And  as  to  these 
being  your  premises,  they  are  in  far  too  disgraceful  a 
condition  to  claim  any  privilege  of  ownership,  or  any- 
thing else." 

The  Hermit  bounced  down  from  his  window-ledge,  and 
cast  himself  on  his  bed  of  soot  and  cinders. 

I  am  not  going,"  said  Mr.  Traveller,  glancing  in  after 
him.  You  won't  get  rid  of  me  in  that  way.  You  had 
better  come  and  talk." 

*'  I  won't  talk,"  said  the  Hermit,  flouncing  round  to 
get  his  back  towards  the  window. 

Then  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Traveller.  Why  should  you 
take  it  ill  that  I  have  no  curiosity  to  know  why  you  live 
this  highly  absurd  and  highly  indecent  life?  When  I 
contemplate  a  man  in  a  state  of  disease,  surely  there  is 
no  moral  obligation  on  me  to  be  anxious  to  know  how  he 
took  it." 

After  a  short  silence,  the  Hermit  bounced  up  again^ 
and  camo  back  to  the  barred  window. 

''What?  You  arc  not  gone ?"  he  said,  affecting  to 
have  supposed  that  he  was. 

Nor  going,"  Mr.  Traveller  replied  :  "  I  design  to  pass 
this  summer  day  here." 

How  dare  you  come,  sir,  upou  my  premises — "  the 
Hermit  was  returning,  when  his  visitor  interrupted  him. 

''Roally,  you  know,  you  must  not  talk  about  your 
premises.  I  cannot  allow  such  a  place  as  this  to  be  dig- 
nified with  the  name  of  premises." 

*'  How  dare  you,"  said  the  Hermit,  shaking  his  bars, 
"  come  in  at  my  gate,  to  taunt  me  with  being  in  a  dis- 
eased state  ?  " 

"Why,  Lord  bless  my  soul,"  returned  the  other,  very 
composedly,  you  have  not  the  face  to  say  that  you  are 
in  a  wholesome  state  ?  Do  allow  me  again  to  call  your 
attention  to  your  legs.  Scrape  yourself  anywhere — with 
anything — and  then  tell  me  you  are  in  a  wholesome 
state.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Mopes,  that  you  are  not  only  a 
Nuisance — " 

"  A  nuisance  ? '  ■  repeated  the  Hermit,  fiercely. 

"  What  is  a  place  in  this  obscene  state  of  dilapidation 
but  a  Nuisance  ?   What  is  a  man  in  your  obscene  state 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


651 


dilapidation  but  a  Nuisance  ?  Then,  as  you  very  well 
know,  you  cannot  do  without  an  audience,  and  your 
audience  is  a  Nuisance.  You  attract  all  the  disreputable 
vagabonds  and  prowlers  within  ten  miles  round,  by  ex- 
hibiting yourself  to  them  in  that  objectionable  blanket, 
and  by  throwing  copper  money  among  them,  and  giving 
them  drink  out  of  those  very  dirty  jars  and  bottles  that 
I  see  in  there  (their  stomachs  need  be  strong  !)  ;  and  in 
short,"  said  Mr.  Traveller,  summing  up  in  a  quietly  and 
comfortably  settled  manner,  *'you  are  a  Nuisance,  and 
this  kennel  is  a  i^uisance,  and  the  audience  that  you  can- 
hot  possibly  dispense  with  is  a  Nuisance,  and  the  Nui- 
sance is  not  merely  a  local  Nuisance,  because  it  is  a 
general  Nuisance  to  know  that  there  can  he  such  a  Nui- 
sance left  in  civilization  so  very  long  after  its  time." 

Will  you  go  away  ?  I  have  a  gun  in  here,"  said  the 
Hermit. 
"Pooh  !  " 

Now,  I  put  it  to  you.  Did  I  say  you  had  not  ?  And 
as  to  going  away,  didn't  I  say  I  am  not  going  away  ? 
You  have  made  me  forget  where  I  was.  I  now  remem- 
ber that  I  was  remarking  on  your  conduct  being  a  Nui- 
sance. Moreover,  it  is  in  the  last  and  lowest  degree 
inconsequent  foolishness  and  weakness. " 

*' Weakness?"  echoed  the  Hermit. 

"  Weakness,"  said  Mr.  Traveller,  with  his  former 
comfortably  settled  final  air. 

I  weak,  you  fool  ?  "  cried  the  Hermit — I,  who  have 
held  to  my  purpose,  and  my  diet,  and  my  only  bed  there, 
all  these  years  ?  " 

"The  more  the  years,  the  weaker  you,"  returned  Mr. 
Traveller.  "  Though  the  years  are  not  so  many  as  folks 
say,  and  as  you  willingly  take  credit  for.  The  crust 
upon  your  face  is  thick  and  dark,  Mr.  Mopes,  but  I  can 
see  enough  of  you  through  it,  to  see  that  you  are  still  a 
young  man.*' 

**  Inconsequent  foolishness  is  lunacy,  I  suppose  ?"  said 
the  Hermit. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  very  like  it,"  answered  Mr.  Traveller. 
'*  Do  I  converse  like  a  lunatic  ?  " 

"One  of  us  two  must  have  a  strong  presumption 
against  him  of  being  one,  whether  or  no.  Either  the 
clean  and  decorously  clad  man,  or  the  dirty  and  indecor- 
ously clad  man.    I  don't  say  which." 

"  Why,  you  self-sufficient  bear,''  said  the  Hermit, 
"not  a  day  passes  but  I  am  justified  in  my  purpose  by 
the  conversation  I  told  here  ;  not  a  day  passes  but  I  am 
shown,  by  everything  I  hear  and  see  here,  how  right 
and  strong  T  am  in  holding  my  purpose. 

Mr.  Traveller,  lounging  easily  on  his  billet  of  wood, 


•552  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


took  out  a  pocket  pipe  and  began  to  fill  it.  "Now,  that 
a  man/'  he  said,  appealing  to  the  sumnaer  sky  as  he  did 
so,  **that  a  man — even  behind  bars,  in  a  blanket  and 
skewer — should  tell  me  that  he  can  see,  from  day  today, 
any  orders  or  conditions  of  men,  women,  or  children, 
who  can  by  any  possibility  teach  him  that  it  is  anything 
but  the  miserablest  drivelling  for  a  human  creature  to 
quarrel  with  his  social  nature — not  to  go  so  far  as  to  say, 
to  renounce  his  common  human  decency,  for  that  is  an 
extreme  case  ;  or  who  can  teach  him  that  he  can  in  any 
wise  separate  himself  from  his  kind  and  the  habits  of 
his  kind,  without  becoming  a  deteriorated  spectacle  cal- 
culated to  give  the  Devil  (and  perhaps  the  monkeys) 
pleasure, — is  something  wonderful  I  I  repeat,"  said  Mr. 
Traveller,  beginning  to  smoke,  the  unreasoning  hardi- 
hood of  it,  is  something  wonderful — even  in  a  man  with 
the  dirt  upon  him  an  inch  or  two  thick — behind  bars — in 
a  blanket  and  skewer  !  " 

The  Hermit  looked  at  him  irresolutely,  and  retired  to 
his  soot  and  cinders  and  lay  down,  and  got  up  again  and 
came  to  the  bars,  and  again  looked  at  him  irresolutely, 
and  finally  said  with  sharpness  :     I  don't  like  tobacco." 

"  I  don't  like  dirt,"  rejoined  Mr.  Traveller  ;  "  tobacco 
is  an.  excellent  disinfectant.  We  shall  both  be  the  bet- 
ter for  my  pipe.  It  is  my  intention  to  sit  here  through 
this  summer  day,  until  that  blessed  summer  sun  sinks 
low  in  the  west,  and  to  show  you  what  a  poor  creature 
you  are,  through  the  lips  of  every  chance  wayfarer  who 
may  come  in  at  your  gate." 

What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  the  Hermit,  with  a 
furious  air. 

''I  mean  that  yonder  is  your  gate,  and  there  are  you, 
and  here  am  I.  I  mean  that  I  know  it  to  be  a  moral  im- 
possibility that  any  person  can  stray  in  at  that  gate  from 
any  point  of  the  compass,  with  any  sort  of  experience, 
gained  at  first  hand,  or  derived  from  another,  that  can 
confute  me  and  justify  you." 

You  are  an  arrogant  and  boastful  hero,"  said  the 
Hermit.       You  think  yourself  profound edly  wise." 

"  Bah  I  "  returned  Mr.  Traveller,  quietly  smoking.  - 
"  There  is  little  wisdom  in  knowing  that  every  maB 
must  be  up  and  doing,  and  that  all  mankind  are  made 
dependent  on  one  another." 

You  have  companions  outside,"  said  the  Hermit.  "  I 
am  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  your  assumed  confidence 
in  the  people  who  may  enter." 

A  depraved  distrust,"  returned  the  visitor,  compas- 
sionately raising  his  eyebrows,  '*of  course  belongs  to 
your  state.    I  can't  help  that." 

Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  have  no  confederates?" 

"  I  mean  to  tell  you  nothing  but  what  I  have  told  you. 


What  I  have  told  you  is,  that  is  a  moral  impossibility 
that  any  son  or  daughter  of  Adam  can  stand  on  this 
ground  that  I  put  my  foot  on,  or  any  ground  that  mor- 
tal treads,  and  gainsay  the  healthy  torture  on  which  we 
hold  our  existence." 

*'  Which  is,"  sneered  the  Hermit,  "  according  to 
you—" 

"  Which  is,  returned  the  other,  according  to  Eternal 
Providence,  that  we  must  arise  and  wash  our  faces  and 
do  our  gregarious  work  and  act  and  re-act  on  one  an- 
other, leaving  only  the  idiot  and  the  palsied  to  sit  blink- 
ing in  the  corner.  Come  !  *  apostrophizing  the  gate, 
**  Open  Sesame  !  Show  his  eyes  and  grieve  his  heart  I 
I  don^t  care  who  come,  for  I  know  what  must  come  of 
it  1" 

With  that,  he  faced  round  a  little  on  his  billet  of 
wood  towards  the  gate  ;  and  Mr.  Mopes,  the  Hermit, 
after  two  or  three  ridiculous  bounces  of  indecision  at  his 
bed  and  back  again,  submitted  to  what  he  could  not 
help  himself  against,  and  coiled  himself  on  his  window- 
ledge,  holding  to  his  bars  and  looking  out  rather  anx- 
iously. 


VI. 

Picking  up  Miss  Kimmeens. 

The  day  was  by  this  time  waning,  when  the  gate 
again  opened,  and  with  the  brilliant  golden  light  that 
streamed  from  the  declining  sun  and  touched  the  very 
bars  of  the  sooty  creature's  den,  there  passed  in  a  little 
child  ;  a  little  girl  with  beautiful  bright  hair.  She  wore 
a  plain  straw  hat,  had  a  door-key  in  her  hand,  and 
tripped  towards  Mr.  Traveller  as  if  she  w^ere  pleased  to 
see  him,  and  were  going  to  repose  som«  childish  confi- 
dence in  him,  when  she  caught  sight  of  the  figure  behind 
the  bars,  and  started  back  in  terror. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  darling!"  said  Mr.  Traveller, 
taking  her  by  the  hand. 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  like  it  I "  urged  the  shrinking  child  • 
"it's  dreadful." 

"  Well  !    I  don't  like  it,  either,"  said  Mr.  Traveller. 

*'Who  has  put  it  there?"  asked  the  little  girl, 
"Does  it  bite?" 

**  No, — only  barks.  But  can't  you  make  up  your  mind 
to  see  it,  my  dear  ?  "    For  she  was  covering  her  eyes. 

"  O  no,  no,  no  !"  returned  the  child.  "  I  cannot  beai 
to  look  at  it  !  " 

Mr.  Traveller  turned  his  head  towards  his  friend  in 
there,  as  much  as  to  ask  him  how  he  liked  that  instance 
of  his  success,  and  then  took  the  child  out  at  the  still 


554 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Open  gate,  and  stood  talking  to  her  for  some  half  an 
hour  in  the  mellow  sunlight.  At  length  he  returned, 
encouraging  her  as  she  held  his  arm  with  both  hep 
hands  ;  and  laying  his  protecting  hand  upon  her  head 
and  smoothing  her  pretty  hair,  he  addressed  his  friend 
behind  the  bars  as  follows  : 

Miss  Pupford's  establishment  for  six  young  ladies  of 
tender  years,  is  an  establishment  of  a  compact  nature, 
an  establishment  in  miniature,  quite  a  pocket  establish- 
ment. Miss  Pupford,  Miss  Pupford's  assistant  with  the 
Parisian  accent,  Miss  Pupford's  cook,  and  Miss  Pup- 
ford's  housemaid,  complete  what  Miss  Pupford  calls  the 
educated  and  domestic  staff  of  her  Liliputian  College. 

Miss  Pupford  is  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  her  sex  ;  it 
necessarily  follows  that  she  possesses  a  sweet  temper, 
and  would  own  to  the  possession  of  a  great  deal  of  senti- 
ment if  she  considered  it  quite  reconcilable  with  her 
duty  to  parents.  Deeming  it  not  in  the  bond.  Miss  Pup- 
ford keeps  it  as  far  out  of  sight  as  she  can — which  (God 
bless  her  I)  is  not  very  far. 

Miss  Pupford's  assistant  with  the  Parisian  accent,  may 
be  regarded  as  in  some  sort  an  inspired  lady,  for  she 
never  conversed  with  a  Parisian,  and  was  never  out  of 
England — except  once  in  the  pleasure-boat.  Lively,  in 
the  foreign  waters  that  ebb  and  flow  two  miles  off  Mar- 
gate at  high  water.  Even  under  those  geographically 
favourable  circumstances  for  the  acqaisition  of  the 
French  language  in  its  utmost  politeness  and  purity. 
Miss  Pupford's  assistant  did  not  fully  profit  by  the 
opportunity  ;  for  the  pleasure-boat,  Lively,  so  strongly 
asserted  its  title  to  its  name  on  that  occasion,  that  she 
was  reduced  to  the  condition  of  lying  in  the  bottom  of 
th-  boat  pickling  in  brine — as  if  she  were  being  salted 
down  for  the  use  of  the  Navy — undergoing  at  the  same 
time  great  mental  alarm,  corporeal  distress,  and  clear- 
starching derangement. 

When  Miss  Pupford  and  her  assistant  first  fore- 
gathered, is  not  known  to  men,  or  pupils.  But,  it  was 
long  ago.  A  belief  would  have  established  itself  among 
pupils  that  the  two  onc^  went  to  school  together,  were 
it  not  for  the  difficulty  and  audacity  of  imagining  Miss 
Pupford  born  without  mittens,  and  without  a  front,  and 
without  a  bit  of  gold  wire  among  her  front  teeth,  and 
without  little  dabs  of  powder  on  her  neat  little  face  and 
nose.  Indeed,  Whenever  Miss  Pupford  gives  a  little 
lecture  on  the  mythology  of  the  misguided  heathens 
(always  carefully  including  Cupid  from  recognition),  and 
tells  how  Minerva  sprang,  perfectly  equipped,  from  the 
brain  of  Jupiter,  she  is  half  supposed  to  hint,  So  I  my- 
self came  into  the  world,  completely  up  in  Pinnock, 
Mangnall,  Tables,  and  the  use  of  the  Globes. " 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


555 


Howbeit,  Miss  Pupford  and  Miss  Pupford's  assistant 
are  old,  old  friends.  And  it  is  thought  by  pupils  that, 
after  pupils  are  gone  to  bed,  they  even  call  one  another 
by  their  christian  names  in  the  quiet  little  parlour.  For, 
once  upon  a  time  on  a  thunderous  afternoon,  when  Miss 
Pupford  fainted  away  without  notice,  Miss  Pupford's 
assistant  (never  heard,  before  or  since,  to  address  her 
otherwise  than  as  Miss  Pupford)  ran  to  her,  crying  out, 
'^My  dearest  Euphemia !  "  And  Euphemia  is  Miss 
Pupford's  christian  name  on  the  sampler  (date  picked 
out)  hanging  up  in  the  College  hall,  where  the  two  pea- 
cocks, terrified  to  death  by  some  German  text  that  is 
waddling  down  hill  after  them  out  of  a  cottage,  are 
scuttling  away  to  hide  their  profiles  in  two  immense 
bean-stalks  growing  out  of  flowering-pots. 

Also,  there  is  a  notion  latent  among  pupils,  that  Miss 
Pupford  was  once  in  love,  and  that  the  beloved  object 
still  moves  upon  this  ball.  Also,  that  lie  is  a  public 
character,  and  a  personage  of  vast  consequence.  Also, 
that  Miss  Pupford's  assistant  knows  all  about  it.  For, 
sometimes  of  an  afternoon  when  Miss  Pupford  has  been 
reading  the  paper  through  her  little  gold  eye-glass  (it  is 
necessary  to  read  it  on  the  spot,  as  the  boy  calls  for  it, 
with  ill-conditioned  punctuality,  in  an  hour),  she  has 
become  agitated,  and  has  said  to  her  assistant,  G\'* 
Then  Miss  Pupford's  assistant  has  gone  to  Miss  Pupford, 
and  Miss  Pupford  has  pointed  out,  with  her  eye-glass,  G 
in  the  paper,  and  then  Miss  Pupford's  assistant  has  read 
about  G,  and  has  shown  sympathy.  So  stimulated  has 
the  pupil-mind  been  in  its  time  to  curiosity  on  the  sub- 
ject of  G,  that  once  under  temporary  circumstances 
favourable  to  the  bold  sally,  one  fearless  pupil  did  act- 
ually obtain  possession  of  the  paper,  and  range  ail  over 
it  in  search  of  G,  who  had  been  discovered  therein  by 
Miss  Pupford  not  ten  minutes  before.  But  no  G  could 
be  identified,  except  one  capital  offender  who  had  been 
executed  in  a  state  of  great  hardihood,  and  it  was  not  to 
be  supposed  that  Miss  Pupford  could  ever  have  loved 
him.  Besides  he  couldn't  be  always  being  executed. 
Besides,  he  got  into  the  paper  again,  alive,  within  a 
month. 

On  the  whole,  it  is  suspected  by  the  pupil-mind  that 
G  is  a  short  chubby  old  gentleman,  with  little  black 
sealing-wax  boots  up  to  his  knees,  whom  a  sharply  ob- 
servant pupil.  Miss  Linx,  when  she  once  went  to  Tun- 
bridge  Wells  with  Miss  Pupford  for  the  holidays,  re- 
ported on  her  return  (privately  and  confidentially)  to 
have  seen  come  capering  up  to  Miss  Pupford  on  the 
Promenade,  and  to  have  detected,  in  the  act  of  squeez- 
ing Miss  Pupford's  hand,  and  to  have  heard  pronounce 
the  words,    Cruel  Euphemia,  ever  thine  !  "—or  somci 


556  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


thing  like  that.    Miss  Linx  Tiazarded  a  guees  that  he 

might  be  House  of  Commons,  or  Money  Market,  or  Court 
Circular,  or  Fashionable  Movements  ;  which  would  ac^ 
count  for  his  getting  into  the  paper  so  often.  But  it 
was  fatally  objected  by  the  pupil-mind,  that  none  of 
those  notabilities  could  possibly  be  spelt  with  a  G. 

There  are  other  occasions,  closely  watched  and  per-» 
fectly  comprehended  by  the  pupil-mind,  when  Miss  Pup- 
ford  imparts  with  mystery  to  her  assistant  that  there  ia 
special  excitement  in  the  morning  paper.  These  occa^ 
sions  are,  when  Miss  Pupford  finds  an  old  pupil  coming 
out  under  the  head  of  Births,  or  Marriages.  Affection^ 
ate  tears  are  invariably  seen  in  Miss  Pupford's  meek  lit- 
tle eyes  when  this  is  the  case  ;  and  the  pupil-mind,  per- 
ceiving that  its  order  has  distinguished  itself — though 
the  fact  is  never  mentioned  by  Miss  Pupford — becomes 
elevated,  and  feels  that  it  likewise  is  reserved  for  great" 
ness. 

Miss  Pupford's  assistant  with  the  Parisian  accent  has 
a  little  more  bone  than  Miss  Pupford,  but  is  of  the  same 
trim,  orderly,  diminutive  cast,  and,  from  long  contem- 
plation, admiration,  and  imitation  of  Miss  Pupford,  has 
grown  like  her.  Being  entirely  devoted  to  Miss  Pup- 
ford, and  having  a  pretty  talent  for  pencil-drawing,  she 
once  made  a  portrait  of  that  lady  :  which  was  so  instant- 
ly identified  and  hailed  by  the  pupils,  that  it  was  done 
on  stone  at  five  shillings.  Surely  the  softest  and  milki- 
est stone  that  ever  was  quarried,  received  that  likeness 
of  Miss  Pupford  !  The  lines  of  her  placid  little  nose  are 
so  undecided  in  it  that  strangers  to  the  work  of  art  are 
observed  to  be  exceedingly  perplexed  as  to  where  the 
nose  goes  to,  and  involuntarily  feel  their  own  noses  in  a 
disconcerted  manner.  Miss  Pupforc!  being  represented 
in  a  stage  of  dejection  at  an  open  window,  ruminating 
over  a  bowl  of  gold  fish,  the  pupil-mind  has  settled  that 
the  bowl  was  presented  by  G. ,  and  that  he  wreathed  the 
bowl  with  flowers  of  soul,  and  that  Miss  Pupford  is  de- 
picted as  waiting:  for  him  on  a  memorable  occasion  when 
he  was  behind  his  time. 

The  approach  of  the  last  Midsummer  holidays  had  a 
particular  interest  for  the  pupil-mind,  by  reason  of  its 
knowing  that  Miss  Pupford  was  bidden,  on  the  second 
day  of  those  holidays,  to  the  nuptials  of  a  former  pupiL 
As  it  was  impossible  to  conceal  the  fact — so  extensive 
were  the  dress-making  preparations — Miss  Pupford  open- 
ly announced  it.  But,  she  held  it  due  to  parents  to  make 
the  announcement  with  an  air  of  gentle  melancholy,  as 
if  marriage  were  (as  indeed  it  exceptionally  has  been) 
rather  a  calamity.  With  an  air  of  softened  resignation 
and  pity,  therefore.  Miss  Pupford  went  on  with  her  pre- 
parations ;  and  meanwhile  no  pupil  ever  went  upstairst 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


667 


or  came  down,  without  peeping  In  at  the  door  of  Miss 
Pupford's  bedroom  (when  Miss  Pupford  wasn't  there), 
and  bringing  back  some  surprising  intelligence  concern- 
ing the  bonnet. 

The  extensive  preparations  being  completed  on  the 
day  before  the  holidays,  an  unanimous  entreaty  was  pre- 
ferred to  Miss  Pupford  by  the  pupil-mind — finding  ex- 
pression through  Miss  Pupford's  assistant — that  she 
would  design  to  appear  in  all  her  splendour.  Miss  Pup- 
lord  consenting,  presented  a  lovely  spectacle.  And  al- 
though the  oldest  pupil  was  barely  thirteen,  enery  one 
of  the  six  became  in  two  minutes  perfect  in  the  shape, 
cut,  colour,  price,  and  quality  of  every  article  Miss  Pup- 
ford wore. 

Thus  delightfully  ushered  in,  the  holidays  began. 
Five  of  the  six  pupils  kissed  little  Kitty  Kimmeens 
twenty  times  over,  (round  total,  one  hundred  times,  for 
she  was  very  popular),  and  so  went  home.  Miss  Kitty 
Kimmeens  remained  behind,  for  her  relations  and  friends 
were  all  in  India,  far  away.  A  self-helpful,  steady 
little  child  is  Miss  Kitty  Kimmeens  :  a  dimpled  child  too 
and  a  loving. 

So,  the  great  marriage-day  came,  and  Miss  Pupford, 
quite  as  much  fluttered  as  any  bride  could  be  (Q  I  thought 
Miss  Kitty  Kimmeens),  went  away,  splendid  to  behold, 
in  the  carriage  that  was  sent  for  her.  But  not  Miss 
Pupford  only  went  away  ;  for  Miss  Pupford's  assistant 
went  away  with  her,  on  a  dutiful  visit  to  an  aged  uncle 
— though  surely  the  venerable  gentleman  couldn't  live  in 
the  gallery  of  the  church  where  the  marriage  was  to  be, 
thought  Miss  Kitty  Kimmeens — and  ^et  Miss  Pupford's 
assistant  had  let  out  that  she  was  going  there.  Where 
the  cook  was  going,  didn't  appear,  but  she  generally  con- 
veyed to  Miss  Kimmeens  that  she  was  bound,  rather 
against  her  will,  on 'a  pilgrimage  to  perform  some  pious 
office  that  rendered  new  ribbons  necessary  to  her  best 
bonnet,  and  also  sandals  to  her  shoes. 

So  you  see,''  said  the  housemaid,  when  they  were 
all  gone,  there's  nobody  left  in  the  house  but  you  and 
me.  Miss  Kimmeens." 

Nobody  else,*'  said  Miss  Kitty  Kimmeens,  shakins: 
iier  curls  a  little  sadly.     Nobody  I " 

*'  And  you  wouldn't  like  you  Bella  to  go  too  ;  would 
you.  Miss  Kimmeens  ?  "  said  the  housemaid.  (She  being 
Bella.)  ^ 

"  N — no,"  answered  little  Miss  Kimmeens. 

"Your  poor  Bella  is  forced  to  stay  with  you,  whether 
she  likes  it  or  not ;  ain't  she.  Miss  Kimmeens?  " 

"  Don't  you  like  it?"  inquired  Kitty. 

"  Why,  you're  such  a  darling,  Miss,  that  it  would  be 
unkind  of  your  Bella  to  make  objections.     Yet  my 


558  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKBNS. 


brother-in-law  has  been  took  unexpected  bad  by  this 
morning's  post.  And  your  poor  Bella  is  much  attached 
to  him,  letting  alone  her  favourite  sister.  Miss  Kim- 
meens." 

Is  he  very  ill?"  asked  little  Kitty. 

"  Your  poor  Bella  has  her  fears  so.  Miss  Kimmeens,-' 
returned  the  housemaid,  with  her  apron  at  her  eyes. 

It  was  but  his  inside,  it  is  true,  but  it  might  mount, 
and  the  doctor  said  that  if  it  mounted  he  wouldn't 
answer."  Here  the  housemaid  was  so  overcome  that 
Kitty  administered  the  only  comfort  she  had  ready  : 
which  was  a  kiss. 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  disappointing  Cook,  dear  Miss 
Kimmeens,"  said  the  housemaid,  Your  Bella  would 
have  asked  her  to  stay  with  you.  For  Cook  is  sweet 
company,  Miss  Kimmeens  ;  much  more  so  than  your 
own  poor  Bella." 

But  you  are  very  nice,  Bella." 

**  Your  Bella  could  wish  to  be  so.  Miss*  Kimmeens," 
returned  the  housemaid,  **but  she  knows  full  well  that 
it  do  not  lay  in  her  power  this  day." 

With  which  despondent  conviction,  the  housemaid 
drew  a  heavy  sigh,  and  shook  her  head,  and  dropped  it 
on  one  side. 

If  it  had  been  anyways  right  to  disappoint  Cook," 
6he  pursued,  in  a  contemplative  and  abstracted  manner, 
*'it  might  have  been  so  easy  done  !  I  could  have  got  to 
my  brother-in-law's,  and  had  the  best  part  of  the  day 
there,  and  got  back,  long  before  our  ladies  come  home 
at  night,  and  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of  them  need 
never  have  known  it.  Nor  that  Miss  Pupford  would  at 
all  object,  but  that  it  might  put  her  out,  being  tender- 
hearted. Hows'ever,  your  own  poor  Bella,  Miss  Kim- 
meens," said  the  housemaid,  rousing  herself,  "  is  forced 
to  stay  with  you,  and  you're  a  precious  love,  if  not  a  lib- 
erty." 

"  Bella,"  said  little  Kitty,  after  a  short  silence. 
Call  me  your  own  poor  Bella,  your  Bella,  dear,"  the 
housemaid  besought  her. 
My  Bella,  then." 
*'  Bless  your  considerate  heart  1  "    said  the  house- 
maid. 

*'If  you  would  not  mind  leaving  me,  I  should  not 
mind  being  left.  I  am  not  afraid  to  stay  in  the  house 
alone  ;  and  you  need  not  be  uneasy  on  my  account,  for  I 
would  be  very  careful  to  do  no  harm." 

"0  !  As  to  harm,  you  more  than  sweetest,  if  not  a 
liberty,"  exclaimed  the  housemaid,  in  a  rapture,  **  your 
Bella  could  trust  you  anywhere,  being  so  steady,  and  so 
answerable.  The  oldest  head  in  this  house  (me  and  Cook 
gays),  but  for  its  bright  hair,  is  Miss  Kimmeens.  Bu* 


MISCELLANEOUS, 


569 


no,  I  will  not  leave  you  ;  for  you  would  think  your  Bella 
unkind." 

"  But  if  you  are  my  Bella,  you  must  go/*  returned  the 
child. 

"  Must  I  ?  "  said  the  housemaid,  rising,  on  the  whole 
with  alacrity.  What  must  be,  must  be,  Miss  Kim- 
meens.  Your  own  poor  Bella  acts  according,  though  un- 
willing. But  go  or  stay,  your  own  poor  Bella  loves  you, 
Miss  Kimmeens." 

It  was  certainly  go,  and  not  stay,  for  within  five  min- 
tiites  Miss  Kimmeens's  own  poor  Bella — so  much  im- 
proved in  point  of  spirits  as  to  have  grown  almost  san^ 
guine  on  the  subject  of  her  brother-in-law — went  her 
way,  in  apparel  that  seemed  to  have  been  expressly 
prepared  for  some  festive  occasion.  Such  are  the  changes 
of  this  fleeting  world,  and  so  short-sighted  are  we  poor 
mortals  ! 

When  the  house  door  closed  with  a  bang  and  a  shake, 
it  seemed  to  Miss  Kimmeens  to  be  a  very  heavy  house 
door,  shutting  her  up  in  a  wilderness  of  a  house.  But, 
Miss  Kimmeens  being,  as  before  stated,  of  a  self-reliant 
and  methodical  character,  presently  began  to  parcel  out 
the  long  summer-day  before  her. 

And  first  she  thought  she  would  go  all  over  the  house, 
to  make  quite  sure  that  nobody  with  a  great-coat  on  and 
a  carving-knife  in  it,  had  got  under  one  of  the  beds  or 
into  one  of  the  cupboards.  Not  that  she  had  ever  before 
been  troubled  by  the  image  of  anybody  armed  with  a 
great-coat  and  a  carving-knife,  but  that  it  seemed  to 
have  been  shaken  into  existence  by  the  shake  and  the 
bang  of  the  great  street  door,  reverberating  through  the 
solitary  house.  So,  little  Miss  Kimmeens  looked  under 
the  five  empty  beds  of  the  five  departed  pupils,  and 
looked  under  her  own  bed,  and  looked  under  Miss  Pup- 
ford's  bed,  and  looked  under  Miss  Pupford's  assistant's 
bed.  And  when  she  had  done  this,  and  was  making  the 
tour  of  the  capboards,  the  disagreeable  thought  came 
into  her  young  head.  What  a  very  alarming  thing  it 
would  be  to  find  somebody  with  a  mask  on,  like  Guy 
Fawkes,  hiding  bolt  upright  in  a  corner,  and  pretending 
not  to  be  alive  !  Ho vf ever,  Miss  Kimmeens  having  fin- 
ished  her  inspection  without  making  any  such  uncom-> 
fortable  discovery,  sat  down  in  her  tidy  little  manner  to 
needlework,  and  began  stitching  away  at  a  great  rate. 

The  silence  all  about  her  soon  grew  very  oppressive, 
and  the  more  so  because  of  the  odd  inconsistency  that 
the  more  silent  it  was  the  more  noises  there  were.  The 
noise  of  her  own  needle  and  thread  as  she  stitched,  was 
infinitely  louder  in  her  ears  than  the  stitching  of  all  the 
six  pupils,  and  of  Miss  Pupford,  and  of  Miss  Pupford's 
assistant,  all  stitching  away  at  once  on  a  highly  emula- 


560 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


t!ve  afternoon.  Then,  the  schoolroom  clock  conducted 
Itself  in  a  way  in  which  it  had  never  conducted  itself 
before — fell  lame,  somehow,  and  yet  persisted  in  run- 
ning on  as  hard  and  as  loud  as  it  could:  the  conse- 
quence  of  which  behaviour  was,  that  it  staggered  among 
the  minutes  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  confusion,  and 
knocked  them  about  in  all  directions  without  appearing 
to  get  on  with  its  regular  work.  Perhaps  this  alarmed 
the  stairs :  but  be  that  as  it  might,  they  began  to  creak 
in  a  most  unusual  manner,  and  then  the  furniture  began 
to  crack,  and  then  poor  little  Miss  Kimmeens,  not  liking 
the  furtive  aspect  of  things  in  general,  began  to  sing  as 
she  stitched.  But  it  was  not  her  own  voice  that  she 
heard — it  was  somebody  else  making  believe  to  be  Kit- 
ty, and  singing  excessively  flat,  without  any  heart — so 
as  that  would  never  mend  matters,  she  left  oif  again. 

By  and  by,  the  stitching  became  so  palpable  a  failure 
that  Miss  Kitty  Kimmeens  folded  her  work  neatly,  and 
put  it  away  in  its  box,  and  gave  it  up.  Then  the  ques- 
tion arose  about  reeding.  But  no  ;  the  book  that  was  so 
delightful  when  tbere  was  somebody  she  loved  for  her 
eyes  to  fall  on  when  they  rose  from  the  page,  had  not 
more  heart  in  it  than  her  own  singing  now.  The  book 
went  to  its  shelf  as  the  needlework  had  gone  to  its  box, 
and,  since  something  must  be  done — thought  the  child, 
"  ril  go  put  my  room  to  rights." 

She  shared  her  room  with  her  dearest  little  friend 
among  the  other  five  pupils,  and  why  then  should  she 
now  conceive  a  lurking  dread  of  the  little  friend's  bed, 
stead  ?  But  she  did.  There  was  a  stealthy  air  about  its 
innocent  white  curtains,  and  there  were  even  dark  hints 
of  a  dead  girl  lying  under  the  coverlet.  The  great  want 
of  human  company,  the  great  need  of  a  human  face,  be-r 
gan  now  to  express  itself  in  the  facility  with  which  the 
furniture  put  on  strange  exaggerated  resemblances  to 
human  looks.  A  chair  with  a  menacing  frown  was  hor- 
ribly out  of  temper  in  a  corner  ;  a  most  vicious  chest  of 
drawers  snarled  at  her  from  between  the  windows.  It 
was  no  relief  to  escape  from  these  monsters  to  the  look- 
ing-glass, for  the  reflection  said,  What?  Is  that  you 
all  alone  there  ?  How  you  stare  ?  "  And  the  background 
was  all  a  great  void  stare  as  well. 

The  day  dragged  on,  dragging  Kity  with  it  very  slow- 
ly by  the  hair  of  her  head,  until  it  was  time  to  eat. 
There  were  good  provisions  in  the  pantry,  but  their  right 
flavour  and  relish  had  evaporated  with  the  five  pupils, 
and  Miss  Pupford,  and  Miss  Pupford's  assistant,  and  the 
cook  and  housemaid.  Where  was  the  use  of  laying  the 
cloth  symmetrically  for  one  small  guest,  who  had  gone 
on  ever  since  the  morning  growing  smaller  and  smaller, 
while  the  empty  house  had  gone  on  swelling  larger  and 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


561 


larger  ?   The  very  grace  came  out  wrong,  for  who  were 

we  who-  were  going  to  receive  and  be  thankful  ?  So, 
Miss  Kimmeens  was  not  thankful,  and  found  herself 
taking  her  dinner  in  very  slovenly  style — gobbling  it  up, 
in  short,  rather  after  the  manner  of  the  lower  animals, 
not  to  particularize  the  pigs. 

But,  this  was  by  no  means  the  worst  of  the  change 
wrought  out  in  the  naturally  loving  and  cheery  little 
creature  as  the  solitary  day  wore  on.  She  began  to 
brood  and  be  suspicious.  She  discovered  that  she  was 
full  of  wrongs  and  injuries.  All  the  people  she  knew, 
got  tainted  by  her  lonely  thoughts  and  turned  bad. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Papa,  a  widower  in  India,  to 
send  her  home  to  be  educated,  and  to  pay  a  handsome 
round  sum  every  year  for  her  to  Miss  Pupford,  and  to 
write  charming  letters  to  his  darling  little  daughter  ; 
but  what  did  he  care  for  her  being  left  by  herself,  when 
he  was  (as  no  doubt  he  always  was)  enjoying  himself  in 
company  from  morning  till  night  ?  Perhaps  he  only  sent 
her  here,  after  all,  to  get  her  out  of  the  way.  It  looked 
like  it— looked  like  it  to-day,  that  is,  for  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing  before. 

And  this  old  pupil  who  was  being  married.  It  was 
insupportably  conceited  and  selfish  in  the  old  pupil  to  be 
married.  She  was  very  vain,  and  very  glad  to  show  off  ; 
and  it  was  highly  probable  that  she  wasn't  pretty  ;  and 
even  if  she  were  pretty  (which  Miss  Kimmeens  now  totally 
denied),  she  had  no  business  to  be  married  ;  and,  even  if 
marriage  were  conceded,  she  had  no  business  to  ask  Miss 
Pupford  to  her  wedding.  As  to  Miss  Pupford,  she  was 
too  old  to  go  to  any  wedding.  She  ought  to  know  that. 
She  had  much  better  attend  to  her  business.  She  had 
thought  she  had  looked  nice  in  the  morning,  but  she 
didn't  look  nice.  She  was  a  stupid  old  thing.  G  was 
another  stupid  old  thing.  Miss  Pupford's  assistant  was 
another.    They  were  all  stupid  old  things  together. 

More  than  that  :  it  began  to  be  obvious  that  this  was 
a  plot.  They  had  said  to  one  another,  Never  mind 
Kitty  ;  you  get  off  ;  and  Til  get  off  ;  aud  we'll  leave 
Kitty  to  look  after  herself.  Who  cares  for  ^6?*  "  To 
be  sure  they  were  right  in  that  question  ;  for  who  did 
care  for  her,  a  poor  little  lonely  thing  against  whom 
they  all  planned  and  plotted?  Nobody,  nobody  !  Here 
Kitty  sobbed. 

At  all  other  times  she  was  the  pet  of  the  whole  house, 
and  loved  her  five  companions  in  return  with  a  child's 
tenderest  and  most  ingenuous  attachment  ;  but  now,  the 
five  companions  put  on  ugly  colours,  and  appeared  for 
the  first  time  under  a  sullen  cloud.  There  they  were,, 
all  at  their  homes  that  day,  being  made  much  of,  being 
taken  out,  being  spoilt  and  made  disagreeable,  and 


562  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


caring  nothing  for  her.  It  was  like  their  artful  selfish- 
ness always  to  tell  her  when  they  came  back,  under 
pretense  of  confidence  and  friendship,  all  those  details 
about  where  they  had  been,  and  what  they  had  done 
and  seen,  and  how  often  they  had  said,  O  !  If  we  had 
only  darling  little  Kitty  here  ! "  Here  indeed  !  I  dare 
say  !  When  they  came  back  after  the  holidays,  they 
were  used  to  being  received  by  Kitty,  and  so  saying  that 
coming  to  Kitty  was  like  coming  to  another  home.  Very 
well  then,  why  did  they  go  away?  Let  them  answer  that. 
But  they  didn't  mean  it,  and  couldn't  answer  that,  and 
they  didn't  tell  the  truth,  and  people  who  didn't  tell  the 
truth  were  hateful.  When  they  came  back  next  time, 
they  thould  be  received  in  a  new  manner  ;  they  should 
be  avoided  and  shunned. 

And  there,  the  while  she  sat  all  alone,  revolving  how 
ill  she  was  used,  and  how  much  better  she  was  than  the 
people  who  were  not  alone^  the  wedding  breakfast  was 
going  on  :  no  question  of  it  !  With  a  nasty  great  bride- 
cake, and  with  those  ridiculous  orange-flowers,  and  with 
that  conceited  bride,  and  that  hideous  bridegroom,  and 
those  heartless  bridesmaids,  and  Miss  Pupford  stuck  up 
at  the  table  !  They  thought  they  were  enjoying  them 
selves,  but  it  would  come  home  to  them  one  day  to  have 
thought  so.  They  would  all  be  dead  in  a  few  years,  let 
them  enjoy  themselves  ever  so  much.  It  was  a  religious 
comfort  to  know  that. 

It  was  such  a  comfort  to  know  it,  that  little  Miss  Kitty 
Kimmeens  suddenly  sprang  from  the  chair  in  which  she 
had  been  musing  in  a  corner,  and  cried  out,  **  0  those 
envious  thoughts  are  not  mine,  O  this  wicked  creature 
isn't  me  !  Help  me,  somebody  !  I  go  wrong,  alone  by 
my  weak  self.    Help  me,  anybody  ! 

— Miss  Kimmeens  is  not  a  professed  philosopher, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Traveller,  presenting  her  at  the  barred 
window,  and  smoothing  her  shining  hair,  *'but  I  appre- 
hend there  was  some  tincture  of  philosophy  in  her  words, 
and  in  the  prompt  action  with  which  she  followed  them. 
That  action  was,  to  emerge  from  her  unnatural  solitude, 
and  look  abroad  for  wholesome  sympathy,  to  bestow  and 
to  receive.  Her  footsteps  strayed  to  this  gate,  bringing 
her  here  hy  chance,  as  an  opposite  contrast  to  you.  The 
child  came  out,  sir.  If  you  have  the  wisdom  to  learn 
from  a  child  (but  I  doubt  it,  for  that  requires  more  wis- 
dom than  one  in  your  position  would  seem  to  possess), 
you  cannot  do  better  than  imitate  the  child,  and  come 
out  too — from  that  very  demoralizing  hutch  of  yours." 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


563 


m 

Picking  up  the  Tinker. 

It  was  now  sunset.    The  Hermit  had  betaken  himself 
to  his  bed  of  cinders  half  an  hour  ago,  and  lying  on  in  in 
his  blanket  and  skewer  with  his  back  to  the  window, 
ook  not  the  smallest  heed  of  the  appeal  addressed  to 
.  im. 

All  that  had  been  said  for  the  last  two  hours,  had 
been  said  to  a  tinkling  accompaniment  performed  by  the 
Tinker  who  had  got  to  work  on  some  villager's  pot  or 
kettle,  and  was  working  briskly  outside.  This  music 
still  continuing,  seemed  to  put  it  into  Mr.  Traveller's 
mind  to  have  another  word  or  two  with  the  Tinker.  So, 
holding  Miss  Kimmeens  (with  whom  he  was  now  on  the 
most  friendly  terms)  by  the  hand,  he  went  out  at  the 
gate  to  where  the  Tinker  was  seated  at  his  work  on  the 
patch  of  grass  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  with  his 
wallet  of  tools  open  before  him,  and  his  little  fire  smok- 
ing. 

**I  am  glad  to  see  you  employed,"  said  Mr.  Traveller. 
**I  am  glad  to  he  employed,"  returned  the  Tinker, 
looking  up  as  he  put  the  finishing  touches  to  his  job. 
But  why  are  you  glad  ?  " 
thought  you  were  a  lazy  fellow  when  I  saw  you 
this  morning." 

''I  was  only  disgusted,*'  said  the  Tinker. 

Do  you  mean  with  the  fine  weather?  " 
'*  With  the  fine  weather  ?  "  repeated  the  Tinker,  star- 
ing. 

You  told  me  you  were  not  particular  as  to  weather, 
and  I  thought — " 

"  Ha,  ha  I    How  should  sucb  as  me  get  on,  if  we  waSy 
partickler  as  .to  weather?    We  must  take  it  as  it  comes 
and  make  the  best  of  it.    There's  something  good  in  all 
weathers.    If  it  don't  happen  to  be  good  for  my  work  to- 
day, it's  good  for  some  other  man's  to-day,  and  will 
come  round  to  me  to-morrow.    We  must  all  live." 
Pray  shake  hands,"  said  Mr.  Traveller. 
"  Take  care,  sir,"  was  the  Tinker's  caution,  as  li3 
reached  up  his  hand  in  surprise  ;    the  black  comes  off.'^ 
I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Traveller.       I  have  been 
for  several  hours  among  other  black  that  does  not  come 
off." 

You  are  speaking  of  Tom  in  there  ?  " 
"Yes." 

^ Well,  now,"  said  the  Tinker,  blowing  the  dust  off 
his  job  ;  which  was  finished.  "  Ain't  it  enough  to  dis- 
^just  a  pig,  if  he  could  give  his  mind  to  it  ?  " 


564  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


If  lie  could  give  his  mind  to  it, '  returned  tlhe  other, 
smiling,     the  probability  is  that  he  wouldn't  be  a  pig." 
There  you  clench  the  nail,"  returned  the  Tinker. 
Then  what's  to  be  said  for  Tom  ?  " 
"Truly  very  little." 

"  Truly  nothing  you  mean,  sir,"  said  the  Tinker,  as  he 
^ut  away  his  tools. 

''A  better  answer,  and  (I  freely  acknowledge)  my 
meaning.  I  infer  that  he  was  the  cause  of  your  dis^ 
gust  ? 

*'Why,  look'ee  here  sir,"  said  the  Tinker,  rising  to 
his  feet,  and  wiping  his  face  on  the  corner  of  his  black 
apron  energetically  ;  I  leave  you  to  judge  ! — I  ask  you  ! 
— Last  night  I  has  a  job  that  needs  to  be  done  in  the 
night,  and  I  works  all  night.  Well,  there's  nothing  in 
that.  But  this  morning  I  comes  along  this  road  here, 
looking  for  a  sunny  and  soft  spot  to  sleep  in,  and  I  sees 
this  desolation  and  ruination.  I've  lived  myself  in  deso- 
lation and  ruination  ;  I  knows  many  a  fellow-creetur 
that's  forced  to  live-long  in  desolation  and  ruination  ;  and 
I  sits  me  down  and  takes  pity  on  it,  as  I  casts  my  eyes 
about.  Then  comes  up  the  long-winded  one  as  I  told 
you  of,  from  that  gate,  and  spins  himself  out  like  a  silk- 
worm concerning  the  Donkey  (if  my  Donkey  at  home 
will  excuse  me)  as  had  made  it  all — made  it  of  his  own 
choice  !  And  tells  me,  if  you  please,  of  his  likewise 
choosing  to  go  ragged  and  naked  and  grimy — ^maskerad- 
ing,  mountebanking,  in  what  is  the  real  hard  lot  of 
thousands  and  thousands  !  Why,  then  I  say  it's  a  un- 
bearable and  nonsensical  piece  of  inconsistency,  and  I'm 
disgusted.    I'm  ashamed  and  disgusted  !  " 

I  wish  you  would  come  and  look  at  him,"  said  Mr. 
Traveller,  tapping  the  Tinker  on  the  shoulder. 

Not  I,  sir,"  he  rejoined,    "/ain't  a-going  to  flatter 
him  up,  by  looking  at  him  !  " 
'*  But  he  is  asleep." 

Are  you  sure  he  is  asleep  ?"  5.sked  the  Tinker,  with 
an  unwilling  air,  as  he  shouldered  his  wallet. 

Sure." 

"  Then  I'll  look  at  him  for  a  quarter  of  a  minute,'* 
said  the  Tinker,  "  since  you  so  much  wish  it ;  but  not  a 
naoment  longer. " 

They  all  three  went  back  across  the  road ;  and, 
through  the  barred  window,  by  the  dying  glow  of  the 
sunset  coming  in  at  the  gate — which  the  child  held  open 
for  its  admission — he  could  be  pretty  clearly  discerned 
lying  on  his  bed. 

**  You  see  him  ?"  said  Mr.  Traveller. 
Yes,"  returned  the  Tinker,  "  and  he's  worse  than  I 
thought  him." 

Mr.  Traveller  then  whispered  in  a  few  words  what  he 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


565 


had  done  since  morning  ;  and  asked  the  Tinker  what  Tie 


"  I  think,"  returned  the  Tinker,  as  he  turned  from 
the  window,     that  youVe  wasted  a  day  on  him." 

'*  I  think  so,  too  ;  though  not,  I  hope,  upon  myself. 
Do  you  happen  to  be  going  anywhere  near  the  Peal  of 
Bells?" 

That's  my  direct  way,  sir,"  said  the  Tinker. 

I  invite  you  to  supper  there.  And  as  I  learn  from 
this  young  lady  that  she  goes  some  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  in  the  same  direction,  we  will  drop  her  on  the  road, 
and  we  will  spare  time  to  keep  her  company  at  her  gar- 
den gate  until  her  own  Bella  comes  home." 

So  Mr.  Traveller,  and  the  child,  and  the  Tinker,  went 
along  very  amicably  in  the  sweet-scented  evening  ;  and 
the  moral  with  which  the  Tinker  dismissed  the  subject 
was,  that  he  said  in  his  trade  that  metal  that  rotted  for 
want  of  use,  had  better  be  left  to  rot,  and  couldn't  rot 
too  soon,  considering  how  much  true  metal  rotted  from 
^▼er-use  and  hard  service. 


Day  of  the  month  and  year,  November  the  thirtieth, 
one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  thirty-five.  London 
Time  by  the  great  clock  of  Saint  Paul's,  ten  at  night. 
All  the  lesser  London  churches  strain  their  metallic 
throats.  Some,  flippanthy  begin  before  the  heavy  bell  of 
the  great  cathedral  ;  some,  tardily  begin  three,  four, 
half  a  dozen  strokes  behind  it ;  all  are  in  suflSciently 
near  accord,  to  leave  a  resonance  in  the  air,  as  if  the 
winged  father  who  devours  his  children,  had  made  a 
sounding  sweep  with  his  gigantic  scythe  in  flying  over 
the  city. 

What  is  this  clock  lower  than  most  of  the  rest,  and 
nearer  to  the  ear,  that  lags  so  far  behind  to-night  as  to 
strike  into  the  vibration  alone  ?  This  is  the  clock  of  the 
Hospital  for  Foundling  Children.  Time  was,  when  the 
Foundling  was  received  without  question  in  a  cradle  at 
the  gate.  Time  was,  when  inquiries  are  made  respect- 
ing them,  and  they  are  taken  as  by  favour  from  the 
mother's  who  relinquish  all  natural  knowledge  of  them 
and  claim  of  them  for  evermore. 


NO  THOEOUGHFARE. 
[1867.] 


THE  OVERTURE. 


566  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  moon  is  at  the  full,  and  the  night  is  fair  with 
iight  clouds.  The  day  has  heen  otherwise  than  fair,  for 
slush  and  mud,  thickened  with  the  droppings  of  heavy 
fog,  lie  black  in  the  streets.  The  veiled  lady  who  flut- 
ters up  and  down  near  the  postern-gate  of  the  Hospital 
for  Foundling  Children  has  need  to  be  well  shod  to- 
high  t. 

She  flutters  to  and  fro,  avoiding  the  stand  of  hackney 
coaches,  and  often  pausing  in  the  shadow  of  the  western 
end  of  the  great  quadrangle  wall,  with  her  face  turned 
towards  the  gate.  As  above  her  there  is  the  purity  of 
the  moonlit  sky,  and  below  her  there  are  the  defilements 
of  the  pavement,  so  may  she,  haply,  be  divided  in  her 
mind  between  two  vistas  of  reflection  or  experience  ? 
As  her  footprints  crossing  and  recrossing  one  another 
have  made  a  labyrinth  in  the  mire,  so  may  her  track  in 
life  have  involved  itself  in  an  intricate  and  unravellable 
tangle  ? 

The  postern-gate  of  the  Hospital  for  Foundling  Chil- 
dren  opens,  and  a  young  woman  comes  out.  The  lady 
stands  aside,  observes  closely,  sees  that  the  gate  is 
quietly  closed  again  from  within,  and  follows  the  young 
woman. 

Two  or  three  streets  have  been  traversed  in  silence  be 
fore  she,  following  close  behind  the  object  of  her  atten- 
tion, stretches  out  her  hand  and  touches  her.  Then  the 
young  woman  stops  and  looks  round,  startled. 

You  touched  me  lasl;  night,  and,  when  I  turned  my 
head,  you  would  not  speak.  Why  do  you  follow  me  like 
a  silent  ghost  ?  " 

It  was  not,"  returned  the  lady,  in  a  low  voice,  "  that 
1  would  not  speak,  but  that  I  could  not  when  I  tried. 

What  do  you  want  of  me?   I  have  never  done  you 
any  harm  ?  " 
Never." 
* '  Do  I  know  you  ? 
''No.'^ 

"  Then  what  can  you  want  of  me  ?  '* 

'*Here  are  two  guineas  in  this  paper.  Take  my  poor 
little  present,  and  I  will  tell  you." 

Into  the  young  woman's  face,  which  is  honest  and 
comely,  comes  a  flush  as  she  replies  :  There  is  neither 
grown  person  nor  child  in  all  the  large  establishment 
that  I  belong  to,  who  hasn't  a  good  word  for  Sally. 
I  am  Sally.  Could  I  be  so  well  thought  of  if  I  was  to  be 
bought  ? " 

I  do  not  mean  to  buy  you ;  I  mean  only  to  reward 
you  very  slightly." 

Sally  firmly,  but  not  ungently,  closes  and  puts  back 
the  offering  hand,  **  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for 
you,  ma'am,  that  I  will  not  do  for  its  own  sake,  you  are 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


567 


mucTi  mistaken  in  me  if  you  think  that  I  will  do  it  for 
money.    What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"You  are  one  of  the  nurses  or  attendants  afc  the  Hos- 
pital ;  1  saw  you  leave  to-night  and  last  night." 

**  Yes,  I  am,    I  am  Sally." 

"  There  is  a  pleasant  patience  in  your  face  which  makes 
me  believe  that  very  young  children  would  take  readily 
So  you. " 

God  bless  'em  !    So  they  do." 

The  lady  lifts  her  veil,  and  shows  a  face  no  older  than 
the  nurse's.  A  face  far  more  refined  and  capable  than 
hers,  but  wild  and  worn  with  sorrow. 

am  the  miserable  mother  of  a  baby  lately  received 
under  your  care.    I  have  a  prayer  to  make  to  you." 

Instinctively  respecting  the  confidence  which  has  drawn 
aside  the  veil,  Sally — whose  ways  are  all  ways  of  sim- 
plicity and  spontaneity — replaces  it,  and  begins  to  cry. 

*'You  will  listen  to  my  prayer?"  the  lady  urges. 

You  will  not  be  deaf  to  the  agonized  entreaty  of  such 
a  broken  suppliant  as  I  am  ?  " 

O  dear,  dear,  dear?"  cries  Sally.  "What  shall  I 
say,  or  can  I  say  !  Don't  talk  of  prayers.  Prayers  are 
to  be  put  up  to  the  Great  Father  of  All,  and  not  to  nurses 
and  such.  And  there  !  I  am  only  to  hold  my  place  for 
half  a  year  longer,  till  another  young  woman  can  be 
trained  up  to  it.  I  am  going  to  be  married. .  I  shouldn't 
have  been  out  to-night,  but  that  my  Dick  (he  is  the  young 
man  I  am  going  to  be  married  to)  lies  ill,  and  I  help  his 
mother  and  sister  to  watch  him.  Don't  take  on  so,  don't 
take  on  so  !  " 

"  O  good  Sally,  dear  Sally,"  moans  the  lady,  catching 
at  her  dress  entreatingly.  "As  you  are  hopeful  and  I 
am  hopeless  ;  as  a  fair  way  in  life  is  before  you,  which 
can  never,  never  be  before  me  ;  as  you  can  aspire  to  be- 
come a  respected  wife,  and  as  you  can  aspire  to  become 
a  proud  mother  ;  as  you  are  a  living,  loving  woman,  and 
must  die  ;  for  God's  sake  hear  my  distracted  petition  !  " 

"Deary,  deary,  deary  me  I  "  cries  Sally,  her  despera- 
tion culminating  in  the  pronoun,  "  What  am  I  ever  to 
do?  And  there  !  See  how  you  turn  my  own  words 
back  upon  me.  I  tell  you  I  am  going  to  be  married,  o::i 
purpose  to  make  it  clearer  to  you  that  I  am  going  to 
leave,  and  therefore  couldn't  help  you  if  I  would,  Poor 
Thing,  and  you  make  it  seem  to  my  own  self  as  if  I  was 
cruel  in  going  to  be  married  and  not  helping  you.  It 
ain't  kind.    Now,  is  it  kind.  Poor  Thing  ?  " 

"  Sally  !  Here  me,  my  dear.  My  entreaty  is  for  no 
help  in  the  future.  It  applies  to  what  is  past.  It  is 
only  to  be  told  in  two  words." 

"There  !  This  is  worse  and  worse,"  cried  Sally, 
**  Bupposing  that  I  understand  what  two  words  you  m^aa.*' 


568  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

''You  do  understand.  What  are  the  names  they 
have  given  my  poor-baby  ?  I  ask  no  more  than  that. 
I  have  read  of  the  customs  of  the  place.  He  has  been 
christened  in  the  chapel,  and  registered  by  some  sur- 
name in  the  book.  He  was  received  last  Monday  even- 
ing.   What  have  they  called  him  ?  " 

Down  upon  her  knees  in  the  foul  mud  of  the  by-way 
into  which  they  had  strayed — an  empty  street  without 
a  thoroughfare  giving  on  the  dark  gardens  of  the  Hos- 
pital— the  lady  would  drop  in  her  passionate  entreaty,  but 
that  Sally  prevents  her. 

"Don't  !  Don't!  You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  was  set- 
ting myself  up  to  be  good.  Let  me  look  in  your  pretty 
face  again.  Put  your  two  hands  in  mine.  Now  prom- 
ise. You  will  never  ask  me  anything  more  than  the  two 
words  ?  " 

'*  Never  !    Never  I  " 

"  You  will  never  put  them  to  a  bad  use,  if  I  say 
them  ?  " 

Never  !    Never  !  " 
Walter  Wilding.'' 
The  lady  lays  her  face  upon  the  nurse's  breast,  draws 
her  close  in  her  embrace  with  both  arms,  murmurs  a 
blessing  and  the  words/*  Kiss  him  for  me  !  "  and  is  gone. 

Day  of  the  month  and  year,  the  first  Sunday  in  Octo- 
ber, one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  forty -seven.  Lon- 
don Time  by  the  great  clock  of  Saint  Paul's,  half-past 
bne  in  the  afternoon.  The  clock  of  the  Hospital  for 
Foundling  Children  is  well  up  with  the  Cathedral  to- 
day. Service  in  the  chapel  is  over,  and  the  Foundling 
children  are  at  dinner. 

There  are  numerous  lookers-on  at  the  dinner,  as  the 
custom  is.  There  are  two  or  three  governors,  whole 
families  from  the  congregation,  smaller  groups  of  both 
sexes,  individual  stragglers  of  various  degrees.  The 
bright  autumnal  sun  strikes  freshly  into  the  wards  ;  and 
the  heavy-framed  windows  through  which  it  shines,  and 
and  the  panelled  walls  on  which  it  strikes,  are  such  win- 
dows and  such  walls  as  pervade  Hogarth's  pictures. 
The  girls'  refectory  (including  that  of  the  younger  chil- 
dren) is  the  principal  attraction.  Neat  attendants  si- 
lently glide  about  the  orderly  and  silent  tables  ;  the 
lookers-on  move  or  stop  as  the  fancy  takes  them  ;  com- 
ments in  whispers,  on  face  such  a  number  from  such  a 
window  are  not  unfrequent ;  many  of  the  faces  are  of  a 
character  to  fix  attention.  Some  of  the  visitors  from  tho 
outside  public  are  accustomed  visitors.  They  have  es- 
tablished a  speaking  acquaintance  with  the  occupants  of 
particular  seats  at  the  tables,  and  halt  at  those  points  to 
bend  down  and  say  a  word  or  two.    It  is  no  disparage- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


569 


inent  to  their  kindness  that  those  points  are  generally 
points  where  personal  attractions  are.  The  monotony  of 
the  long",  spacious  rooms  and  the  double  lines  of  faces  is 
agreeably  relieved  by  these  incidents, although  so  slight. 

A  veiled  lady,  who  has  no  companion,  goes  among  the 
company.  It  would  seem  that  curiosity  and  opportunity 
have  never  brought  her  there  before.  She  has  the  air 
of  being  a  little  troubled  by  the  sight,  and,  as  she  goes 
&lie  length  of  the  tables,  it  is  with  a  hesitating  step  and 
an  uneasy  manner.  At  length  she  comes  to  the  refecto- 
ry of  the  boys.  They  are  so  much  less  popular  than  the 
girls  that  it  is  bare  of  visitors  when  she  looks  in  at  the 
doorway. 

But  just  within  the  doorway,  chances  to  stand,  inspect- 
ing, an  elderly  female  attendant :  some  order  of  matron 
or  housekeeper.  To  whom  the  lady  addresses  natural 
questions  :  As,  how  many  boys  ?  At  what  age  are  they 
usually  put  out  in  life?  Do  they  often  take  a  fancy  to 
the  sea?  So,  lower  and  lower  in  tone  until  the  lady  puts 
the  question  :     Which  is  Walter  Wilding  ?  " 

Attendant's  head  shaken.    Against  the  rules. 

''You  know  which  is  Walter  Wilding?" 

So  keenly  does  the  attendant  feel  the  closeness  with 
which  the  lady's  eyes  examine  her  face,  that  she  keeps 
her  own  eyes  fast  upon  the  floor,  lest  by  wandering  in 
the  right  direction  they  should  betray  her. 

I  know  which  is  Walter  Wilding,  but  it  is  not  my 
place,  ma'am,  to  tell  names  to  visitors." 

But  you  can  show  me  without  telling  me." 

The  lady's  hand  moves  quietly  to  the  attendant's  hand. 
Pause  and  silence. 

I  am  going  to  pass  round  the  tables,"  says  the  lady's 
interlocutor,  without  seeming  to  address  her.  "  Follow 
me  with  your  eyes.  The  boy  that  I  stop  at  and  speak  to, 
will  not  matter  to  you.  But  the  boy  that  I  touch,  will 
be  Walter  Wilding.  Say  nothing  more  to  me,  and  move 
a  little  away." 

Quickly  acting  on  the  hint,  the  lady  passes  on  into  the 
room,  and  looks  about  her.  After  a  few  moments,  the 
attendant,  in  a  staid  oflBcial  way,  walks  down  outside  the 
line  of  tables  commencing  on  her  left  hand.  She  goes 
the  whole  length  of  the  line,  turns,  and  comes  back  on 
the  inside.  Very  slightly  glancing  in  the  lady's  direc- 
tion, she  stops,  bends  forward,  and  speaks.  The  boy 
whom  she  addresses,  lifts  his  head  and  replies.  Good 
humouredly  and  easily,  as  she  listens  to  what  he  says, 
she  lays  her  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  next  boy  on 
his  right.  That  the  action  maybe  well  noted,  she  keeps 
her  hand  on  the  shoulder  while  speaking  in  return,  and 
pats  it  twice  or  thrice  before  moving  away.  She  com- 
pletes her  tour  of  the  tables,  touching  no  one  else,  and 


570  WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


passes  out  by  a  door  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  long 
I'oom. 

Dinner  is  done,  and  the  lady,  too,  walks  down  outside 
the  line  of  tables  commencing  on  her  left  hand,  goes  the 
whole  length  of  the  line,  turns,  and  comes  back  on  the 
inside.  Other  people  have  strolled  in,  fortunately  for 
her,  and  stand  sprinkled  about.  She  lifts  her  veil, 
;  ,nd,  stopping  at  the  touched  boy,  asks  how  old  he  is  ? 

I  am  twelve,  ma'am,"  he  answers,  with  his  bright 
3jes  fixed  on  hers. 

Are  you  well  and  happy?'* 

Yes  ma'am.'* 

*'May  you  taka  these  sweetmeats  from  my  hand?" 
If  you  please  to  give  them  to  me." 

In  stooping  low  for  the  purpose,  the  lady  touches  the 
boy's  face  with  her  forehead  and  with  her  hair.  Then, 
lowering  her  veil  again,  she  passes  on,  and  passes  out 
without  looking  back. 


ACT  I. 

Tlie  Curtain  Bises. 

In  a  court -yard  in  the  City  of  London,  which  was  No 
Thoroughfare  either  for  vehicles  or  foot  passengers  a 
iK)urt-yard  diverging  from  a  steep,  a  slippery",  and  a 
winding  street  connecting  Tower-street  with  the  Middle- 
sex shore  of  the  Thames  ;  stood  the  place  of  business  of 
Wilding  &  Co.,  Wine  Merchants.  Probably,  as  a  jocose 
acknowledgment  of  the  obstructive  character  of  this 
main  approach,  the  point  nearest  to  its  base  at  which  one 
could  take  the  river  (if  so  inodorously  minded)  bore  the 
appellation  Break-Neck-Stairs.  The  court-yard  itself 
had  likewise  been  descriptively  entitled  in  old  time. 
Cripple  Corner. 

Years  before  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and, 
sixty-one,  people  had  left  off  taking  boat  at  Break-Neck- 
Btairs,  and  watermen  had  ceased  to  ply  there.  The 
slimy  little  causeway  had  dropped  into  the  river  by  a  slow 
process  of  suicide,  and  two  or  three  stumps  of  piles  and 
a  rusty  iron  mooring-ring  were  all  that  remained  of  the 
departed  Break-Neck  glories.  Sometimes,  indeed,  a 
laden  coal  barge  would  bump  itself  into  the  place,  and 
certain  laborious  heavers,  seemingly  mud -engendered, 
would  arise,  deliver  the  cargo  in  the  neighbourhood, 
shove  off,  and  vanish  ;  but  at  most  times  the  only  com- 
merce of  Break-Neck-Stairs  arose  out  of  the  conveyance 
of  casks  and  bottles,  both  full  and  empty,  both  to  and 
from  the  cellars  of  Wilding  &  Co.,  Wine  Merchants. 
Even  that  commerce  was  but  occasional,  and  through 
three- fourths  of  its  rising  tides  the  dirty  indecorous  drab 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


671 


of  a  river  would  come  solitarily  oozing  and  lapping 
at  the  rusty  ring,  as  if  it  had  heard  of  the  Doge  and 
the  Adriatic,  and  wanted  to  be  married  to  the  great  con- 
server  of  its  filthiness,  the  Right  Honourable  the  Lord 
Mayor. 

Some  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  on  the  right,  up  the 
opposite  hill  (approaching  it  from  the  low  ground  of 
Break-Neck- Stairs)  was  Cripi)le  Corner.  There  was  a 
pump  in  Cripple  Corner,  there  was  a  tree  in  Cripple 
Corner.  All  Cripple  Corner  belonged  to  Wilding  &  Co., 
Wine  Merchants.  Thieir  cellars  burrowed  under  it, 
their  mansion  towered  over  it.  It  really  had  been  a 
mansion  in  the  days  when  merchants  inhabited  the  City, 
and  had  a  ceremonious  shelter  to  the  doorway  without 
visible  support,  like  the  sounding-board  over  an  old 
pulpit.  It  had  also  a  number  of  long,  narrow  strips  of 
window,  so  disposed  in  its  grave  briek  front  as  to  render 
it  symmetrically  ugly.  It  had  also,  on  its  roof,  a  cupola 
with  a  bell  in  it. 

**  When  a  man  at  five-and-twenty  can  put  his  hat  on, 
and  can  say,  *  This  hat  covers  the  owner  of  this  property 
and  of  the  business  which  is  transacted  on  this  property,* 
I  consider,  Mr.  Bintrey,  that,  without  being  boastful,  he 
may  be  allowed  to  be  deeply  thankful.  I'don't  know 
how  it  may  appear  to  you,  but  so  it  appears  to  me.*' 

Thus  Mr.  Walter  Wilding  to  his  man  of  law,  in  his 
own  counting-house  ;  taking  his  hat  down  from  its  peg 
to  suit  the  action  to  the  word,  and  hanging  it  up  again 
when  he  had  done  so,  not  to  overstep  the  modesty  of 
nature. 

An  innocent,  open -speaking,  unused -looking  man, 
Mr.  Walter  Wilding,  with  a  remarkably  pink  and  white 
complexion,  and  a  figure  much  too  bulky  for  so  young 
a  man,  though  of  a  good  stature.  With  crispy,  curling 
brown  hair,  and  amiable  brigbt  blue  eyes.  An  extreme- 
ly communicative  man  :  a  man  with  whom  loquacity  was 
the  irrestrainable  outpouring  of  a  contentment  and  grati- 
tude. Mr.  Bintrey,  on  the  other  bane,  a  cautious  man 
with  twinkling  beads  of  eyes,  in  a  large  overhanging 
bald  head,  who  inwardly  but  intensely  enjoyed  the 
eomicality  of  openness  of  speech,  or  hand,  or  heart. 
Yes,"  said  Mr.  Bintrey.       Yes.    Ha,  ha  !  *' 

A  decanter,  two  wine-glasses,  and  a  plate  of  biscuits, 
Stood  on  the  desk. 

"You  like  this  forty-five  year  old  port-wine?**  said 
Mr.  Wilding. 

"  Like  it  ?*'  repeated  Mr.  Bintrey.       Rather,  sir  I*' 

"  It's  from  the  best  corner  of  our  best  forty-five  year 
old  bin,*  said  Mr.  Wilding. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bintrey.  "  It*s  mos* 
excellent." 


572  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


He  laughed  again,  as  he  held  up  his  glass  and  ogled  it, 
at  the  highly  ludicrous  idea  of  giving  away  such  wine. 

And  now,"  said  Wilding,  with  a  childish  enjoyment 
in  the  discussion  of  affairs,  *  *  I  think  we  have  got  every- 
thing straight,  Mr.  Bintrey." 

"  Everything  straight,^'  said  Bintrey. 

^'  A  partner  secured — " 

"  Partner  secured,"  said  Bintrey. 

*'  A  housekeeper  advertised  for — " 

"Housekeeper  advertised  for,"  said  Bintrey,  'Apply 
personally  at  Cripple  Corner,  Great  Tower- Street,  from 
ten  to  twelve' — to-morrow,  by  the  bye." 

My  late  dear  mother's  affairs  wound  up — " 

"Wound  up,"  said  Bintrey. 

"  And  all  charges  paid." 
And  all  charges  paid,  said  Bintrey,  with  a  chuckle ; 
probably  occasioned  by  the  droll  circumstf.nce  that  they 
had  been  paid  without  a  haggle. 

**  The  mention  of  my  late  dear  mother,*'  Mr.  Wilding 
continued,  his  eyes  filling  with  tears  and  his  pocket- 
handkerchief  drying  them,  unmans  me  still  Mr.  Bin- 
trey. You  know  how  1  loved  her  ;  you  (her  lawyer) 
know  how  she  loved  me.  The  utmost  love  of  mother 
and  child  was  cherished  between  us,  and  we  never  ex- 
perienced one  moment's  division  or  unhappiness  from  the 
time  when  she  took  me  under  her  care.  Thirteen  years 
in  all !  Thirteen  years  under  my  late  dear  mother's  care, 
Mr.  Bintrey,  and  eight  of  them  her  confidentially  ac- 
knowledged sons.  Yoti  know  the  story,  Mr.  Bintrey, 
who  but  you,  sir  I "  Mr.  Wilding  sobbed  and  dried  his 
eyes,  without  attempt  at  concealment,  during  these 
remarks. 

Mr.  Bintrey  enjoyed  his  comical  port,  and  said,  after 
rolling  it  in  his  mouth,  **  I  know  the  story." 

"My  late  dear  mother,  Mr.  Bintrey,"  pursued  the 
wine-merchant,  **  had  been  deeply  deceived,  and  had 
cruelly  suffered.  But  on  that  subject  my  late  dear 
mother's  lips  were  for  ever  sealed.  By  whom  deceived, 
or  under  what  circumstances.  Heaven  only  knows.  My 
late  dear  mother  never  betrayed  her  betrayer." 

"  She  had  made  up  her  mind,"  said  Mr.  Bintrey,  again 
turning  his  wine  on  his  palate,  "  and  she  could  bold  her 
peace."  An  amused  twinkle  in  his  eyes  pretty  plainly 
added — "  A  devilish  deal  better  than  you  ever  will  !" 

"  *  Honour/  "  said  Mr.  Wilding,  sobbing  as  he  quoted 
from  the  Commandments,  "  thy  father  and  thy  mother, 
that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land.'  When  I  was  in 
the  Foundling,  Mr.  Bintrey,  I  was  at  such  a  loss  how  to 
do  it,  that  I  apprehended  my  days  would  be  short  in  the 
land.  But  I  afterwards  came  to  honour  my  mother 
deeply,  profoundly.    And  J  honour  and  revere  her  mem- 


MIISCELLANEOUB. 


573 


ory.  l^'or  seven  liappy  years,  Mr.  Bintrey,"  pursued 
Wilding,  still  with  the  same  innocent  catching  in  his 
breath,  and  the  same  unabashed  tears,  did  my  excel- 
lent mother  article  me  to  my  predecessors  in  this  busi- 
ness, Pebbleson  Nephew.  Her  affectionate  forethought 
likewise  apprenticed  me  to  the  Vintner's  Company,  and 
made  me  in  a  time  a  free  Vintner,  and — and — everything 
else  that  the  best  of  mothers  could  desire.  When  I  came 
of  age,  she  bestowed  her  inherited  share  in  this  business 
upon  me  ;  it  was  her  money  that  afterwards  bought  out 
Pebbleson  Nephew,  and  painted  in  Wilding  and  Co.  ;  it 
was  she  who  left  me  everything  she  possessed,  but  the 
mourning  ring  you  wear.  And  yet,  Mr.  Bintrey,*'  with  a 
fresh  burst  of  honest  affection,  **  she  is  no  more.  It  is 
little  over  half  a  year  since  slie  came  into  the  Corner  to 
read  on  that  door-post  with  her  own  eyes.  Wilding  and 
Co.,  Wine  Merchants.    And  yet  she  is  no  more  !  " 

Sad.  But  the  comm^on  lot*  Mr.  Wilding,"  observed 
Bin  trey.  '*  At  some  time  or  other  we  must  all  be  no 
more."  He  placed  the  forty-five  year  old  port-wine  in 
the  universal  condition,  with  a  relishing  sigh, 

•*  So  now,  Mr.  Bintrey,"  pursued  Wilding,  putting 
away  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  smoothing  his  eyelids 
with  his  fingers,  now  that  I  can  no  longer  show  my 
love  and  honour  to  the  dear  parent  to  whom  my  heart 
was  mysteriously  turned  by  Nature  when  she  first  spoke 
to  me,  a  strange  lady,  I  sitting  at  our  Sunday  dinner- 
table  in  the  Foundling,  I  can  at  least  show  that  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  having  been  a  Foundling,  and  that  I,  who 
never  knew  a  father  of  my  own,  wish  to  be  a  father  to 
all  in  my  employment.  **  Therefore,"  continued  Wild- 
ing, becoming  enthusiastic  in  his  loquacity,  therefore, 
I  want  a  thoroughly  good  housekeeper  to  undertake  this 
dwelling-house  of  Wilding  and  Co.,  Wine  Merchants, 
Cripple  Corner,  so  that  I  may  restore  it  to  some  of  the 
old  relations  betwixt  employer  and  employed  1  So  that 
£  may  live  in  it  on  the  spot  where  my  money  is  made  ! 
Bo  that  I  may  daily  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table  at  which 
the  people  in  my  employment  eat  together,  and  may  eat 
of  the  same  roast  and  boiled,  and  drink  of  the  same  beer  ! 
So  that  the  people  in  my  employment  may  lodge  under 
the  same  roof  with  me  !  So  that  we  may  one  and  all — I 
beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Bintrey,  but  that  old  singing  in  my 
head  has  suddenly  come  on,  and  I  shall  feel  obliged  if 
you  will  lead  me  to  the  pump." 

Alarmed  by  the  excessive  pinkness  of  his  client,  Mr. 
Bintrey  lost  not  a  moment  in  leading  him  forth  into  the 
court-yard.  It  was  easily  done  ;  for  the  counting-house 
in  which  they  talked  together  opened  on  to  it,  at  one 
eide  of  the  dwelling-house.  There  the  attorney  pump- 
ed with  a  will,  obedient  to  a  sign  from  the  client,  and 


574 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  client  laved  his  head  and  face  with  both  hands,  and 
took  a  hearty  drink.  After  these  remedies,  he  declared 
himself  much  better. 

Don't  let  your  good  feelings  excite  you,"  said  Bin- 
trey,  as  they  returned  to  the  counting-house,  and  Mr. 
Wilding  dried  himself  on  a  jack-towel  behind  an  inner 
door. 

"  No,  no.  I  won't,"  be  returned,  looking  out  of  the 
towel.       I  have  not  been  confused,  have  I?  " 

Not  at  all.    Perfectly  clear." 
"  Where  did  I  leave  o£E,  Mr.  Bintrey  ?" 

Well,  you  left  off — but  I  wouldn't  excite  myself,  if 
I  was  you,  by  taking  it  up  again  just  yet." 

ril  take  care.  I'll  take  care.  The  singing  in  my 
ead  came  on  at  where,  Mr.  Bintrey?" 

At  roast,  and  boiled,  and  beer,"  answered  the  law- 
yer, prompting — "  lodging  under  the  same  roof — and 
one  and  all — " 

Ah  I  And  one  and  all  singing  in  the  head  together—" 

Do  you  know,  I  really  would  not  let  my  good  feel- 
ings excite  me,  if  I  was  you,"  hinted  the  lawyer  again, 
anxiously.       Try  some  more  pump." 

"  No  occasion,  no  occasion.  All  right,  Mr.  Bintrey. 
And  one  and  all  forming  a  kind  of  family  I  You  see, 
Mr.  Bintrey,  I  was  not  used  in  my  childhood  to  that  sort 
of  individual  existence  which  most  individuals  have  led, 
more  or  less,  in  their  childhood.  After  that  time  I  be- 
came absorbed  in  my  late  dear  mother.  Having  lost  her, 
I  find  that  I  am  more  fit  for  being  one  of  a  body  than 
one  by  myself.  To  be  that,  and  at  the  same  time  to  do 
my  duty  to  those  dependent  on  me,  and  attach  them  to 
me,  has  a  patriarchal  and  pleasant  air  about  it.  I  don't 
know  how  it  may  appear  to  you,  Mr.  Bintrey,  but  so  it 
appears  to  me." 

It  is  not  I  who  am  all-important  in  the  case,  but 
you,"  returned  Bintrey.  Consequently,  how  it  may 
appear  to  me  is  of  very  small  importance." 

'*  It  appears  to  me,''  said  Mr.  Wilding,  in  a  glow, 
"  hopeful,  useful,  delightful  !  " 

Do  you  know,"  hinted  the  lawyer  again,  **  I  really 
would  not  ex — " 

'*  I  am  not  going  to.    Then  there's  Handel." 
'*  There's  who  ?  "  asked  Bintrey. 

"  Handel,  Mozart,  Hayden,  Kent,  Purcell,  Doctor  Arne, 
Q-reene,  Mendelssohn.    I  know  the  choruses  to  those 

thems  by  heart.  Foundling  Chapel  Collection.  Why 
shouldn't  we  learn  them  together  I  " 

**Who  learn  them  together?"  asked  the  lawyer, 
rather  shortly. 

Employer  and  employed." 

**  Ay,  ay,"  returned  Bintrey,  mollified  ;  as  if  he  ha<3 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


575 


iL^alf-expected  the  answer  to  be.  Lawyer  and  client 
"That's  another  thing/' 

*'  Not  another  thing,  Mr.  Bintrey  I  The  same  thing. 
A  part  of  the  bond  among  us.  We  will  form  a  Choir  in 
Bome  quiet  church  near  the  Corner  here,  and,  having 
sung  together  of  a  Sunday  with  a  relish,  we  will  come 
home  and  take  an  early  dinner  together  with  a  relish. 
The  object  that  I  have  at  heart  now  is,  to  get  this  sy^- 
^;em  well  in  action  without  delay,  so  that  my  new  partner- 
may  find  it  founded  when  he  enters  on  his  partner- 
ship. " 

All  good  be  with  it  ! "  exclaimed  Bintrey,  rising. 

**May  it  prosper?  Is  Joey  Ladle  to  take  a  share  in 
Handel,  Mozart,  Hayden,  Kent,  Purcell,  Doctor  Ame, 

eene,  and  Mendelssohn  ?  " 
«  *  I  hope  so.'* 

"  I  wish  them  all  well  out  of  it,"  returned  Bintrey, 
with  much  heartiness.       Good-by,  sir." 

They  shook  hands  and  parted.  Then  (first  knocking 
with  his  knuckles  for  leave)  entered  to  Mr.  Wilding 
from  a  door  of  communication  between  his  private  count- 
ing-house and  that  in  which  his  clerks  sat,  the  Head 
Cellarman  of  the  cellars  of  Wilding  and  Co.,  Wine  Mer- 
chants,  and  first  Head  Cellarman  of  the  cellars  of  Peb- 
bleson  Nephew.  The  Joey  Ladle  in  question.  A  slow 
and  ponderous  man,  of  the  drayman  order  of  human 
architecture,  dressed  in  a  corrugated  suit  and  bibbed 
apron,  apparently  a  composite  of  door-mat  and  rhino- 
ceros-hide. 

'*  Respecting  this  same  boarding  and  lodging,  Young 
Master  Wilding,"  said  he. 
Yes,  Joey?  " 

Speaking  for  myself,  young  Master  Wilding — and  I 
never  did  speak  and  1  never  do  speak  for  no  one  else — 1 
don't  want  no  boarding  nor  yet  no  lodging.    But  if  you 
wish  to  board  me  and  to  lodge  me,  take  me.    I  can  peck 
as  well  as  most  men.    Where  I  peck  ain't  so  high  a  ob- 
ject with  me  as  What  I  peck.    Nor  even  so  high  a  ob- 
ject with  me  as  How  Much  I  peck.    Is  all  to  live  in  the 
house.  Young  Master  Wilding?    The  two  cellarmen,  the 
three  porters,  the  two  'prentices,  and  the  odd  men  ?  " 
Yes.  I  hope  we  shall  all  be  an  united  family,  Joey.'^ 
Ah  1 "  said  Joey.    *'  I  hope  they  may  be." 
'*  They  ?    Rather  say  we,  Joey." 

Joey  Ladle  shook  his  head.  Don't  look  to  me  make 
we  on  it,  Young  Master  Wilding,  not  at  my  time  of  life 
and  under  the  circumstarnces  which  has  formed  my  dis- 
position. I  have  said  to  Pebbleson  Nephew  many 
time,  when  they  have  said  to  me,  '  Put  a  livelier  face 
upon  it,  Joey' — I  have  said  to  them,  *  Gentlemen,  it  is 
all  very  well  for  you  that  has  been  accustomed  to  take 


576 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKEl^S. 


your  wine  into  your  systems  by  the  conwivial  channel  of 
your  throt'^es,  to  put  a  lively  face  upon  it;  but/  I 
says,  '  I  have  been  accustomed  to  take  my  wine  in  at  the 
pores  of  the  skin,  and,  took  that  way,  it  acts  different. 
It  acts  depressing.  It's  one  thing,  gentlemen,'  I  says  to 
Pebbleson  Nephew,  '  to  charge  your  glasses  in  a  dining- 
room  with  a  Hip  Hurrah,  and  a  Jolly  Companions  Every 
One,  and  it's  another  thing  to  be  charged  yourself, 
through  the  pores,  in  a  low  dark  cellar  and  a  mouldy 
atmosphere.  It  makes  all  the  difference  betwixt  bub- 
bles  and  wapoars,"  I  tells  Pebbleson  Nephew.  And  so 
it  do.  I've  been  a  cellarman  my  life  through,  with  my 
mind  fully  given  to  the  business.  What's  the  conse- 
quence ?  I'm  as  muddled  a  man  as  lives — you  won't  find 
a  muddleder  man  than  me — nor  yet  you  won't  find  my 
equal  in  molloncolly.  Sing  of  Filling  the  bumper  fair. 
Every  drop  you  sprinkle  O'er  the  brow  of  care,  Smooths 
away  a  wrinkle  ?  Yes.  P'raps  so.  But  try  filling  your- 
self through  the  pores,  underground,  when  you  don't 
want  to  do  it  I  " 

*'I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  Joey.  I  had  even  thought 
that  you  might  join  a  singing-class  in  the  house." 

Me,  sir  ?  No,  no,  Young  Master  Wilding,  you  won't 
catch  Joey  Ladle  muddling  the  Armory.  A  pecking- 
machine,  sir,  is  all  that  J  am  capable  of  proving  myself, 
out  of  my  cellars  ;  but  that  you're  welcome  to,  if  you 
think  it's  worth  your  while  to  keep  such  a  thing  on  your 
premises. " 

''I  do,  Joey." 

"  Say  no  more,  sir.    The  Business's  word  is  my  law. 
And  you're  a  going  to  take  Young  Master  George  Ven- 
dale  partner  into  the  old  Business  ?" 
I  am,  Joey." 

More  changes,  you  see  !  But  don't  change  the  nam© 
of  the  Firm  again.  Don't  do  it.  Young  Master  Wilding. 
It  was  bad  luck  enough  to  make  it  yourself  and  Co. 
Better  by  far  have  left  it  Pebbleson  Nephew  that  good 
luck  always  stuck  to.  You  should  never  change  luck 
when  it's  good,  sir." 

At  all  events,  I  have  no  intention  of  changing  the 
name  of  the  House  again,  Joey.' 

Glad  to  hear  it,  and  wish  you  good-day.  Young  Mas- 
ter Wilding.  But  you  had  better  by  half,"  muttered 
Joey  Ladle  inaudibly  as  he  closed  the  door  and  shook 
his  head,  have  let  the  name  alone  from  the  first.  You 
had  better  by  half  have  followed  the  luck  instead  ol 
crossing  it. 

Enter  the  Housekeeper. 

The  wine-merchant  sat  in  his  dining-room  next  morn- 
ing, to  receive  the  persona]  applicants  for  the  vacant 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


577 


post  ill  his  establishment.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
wainscoted  room  ;  the  panels  ornamented  with  festoons 
of  flowers  carved  in  wood  ;  with  an  oaken  floor,  a  well- 
worn  Turkey  carpet,  and  dark  mahogany  furniture,  all 
of  which  had  seen  service  and  polish  under  Pebbleson 
Nephew.  The  great  sideboard  had  assisted  at  many 
business-dinners  given  by  Pebbleson  Nephew  to  their 
connection,  on  the  principle  of  throwing  sprats  overboard 
to  catch  whales  ;  and  Pebbleson  Nephew's  comprehen- 
sive three-sided  plate-warmer,  made  to  fit  the  whole 
front  of  the  large  fireplace,  kept  watch  beneath  it  over 
a,  sarcophagus-shaped  cellaret  that  had  in  its  time  held 
many  a  dozen  of  Pebbleson  Nephew's  wine.  But  the 
little  rubicund  old  bachelor  with  a  pigtail,  whose  por- 
trait was  over  the  sideboard  (and  who  could  easily  be 
identified  as  decidedly  Pebbleson  and  decidedly  not 
Nephew),  had  retired  into  another  sarcophagus,  and  the 
plate-warmer  had  grown  as  cold  as  he.  So,  the  golden 
and  black  griffins  that  supported  the  candelabra,  with 
black  balls  in  their  mouths  at  the  end  of  gilded  chains, 
looked  as  if  in  their  old  age  they  had  lost  all  heart  for 
playing  at  ball,  and  were  dolefully  exhibiting  their 
chains  in  the  Missionary  line  of  inquiry,  whether  they 
had  not  earned  emancipation  by  this  time,  and  were  not 
griffins  and  brothers. 

Such  a  Columbus  of  a  morning  was  the  summer  morn- 
ing, that  it  discovered  Cripple  Corner.  The  light  and 
warmth  pierced  in  at  the  open  windows,  and  irradiated 
the  picture  of  a  lady  hanging  over  the  chimney-piece, 
the  only  other  decoration  of  the  walls. 

**My  mother  at  five-and-twenty,"  said  Mr.  Wilding  to 
himself,  as  his  eyes  enthusiastically  followed  the  light  to 
the  portrait's  face,  I  hang  up  here,  in  order  that  the 
visitors  may  admire  my  mother  in  the  bloom  of  her 
youth  and  beauty.  My  mother  at  fifty  I  hang  in  the 
seclusion  of  my  own  chamber,  as  a  remembrance  sacred 
to  me.    Oh  !  It's  you,  Jarvis  ! " 

These  latter  words  he  addressed  to  a  clerk  who  had 
tapped  at  the  door,  and  now  looked  in. 

* '  Yes,  sir.  I  merely  wished  to  mention  that's  gone 
ten,  sir,  and  that  there  are  several  females  in  the  Count- 
ing-house." 

'*Dear  me!'*  said  the  wine-merchant,  deepening  in 
the  pink  of  his  complexion  and  whitening  in  the  white, 
"are  there  several?  So  many  as  several?  I  had  better 
begin  before  there  are  more.  I'll  see  them  one  by  one, 
Jarvis,  in  the  order  of  their  arrival." 

Hastily  entrenching  himself  in  his  easy-chair  at  the 
table  behind  a  great  inkstand,  having  first  placed  a  chair 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table  opposite  his  own  seat,  Mr. 
Wilding  entered  on  his  task  with  considerable  trepida- 


578 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


He  ran  the  gauntlet  tliat  must  be  run  on  any  sucli  oc- 
casion. There  were  the  usual  species  of  profoundly  un 
sympathetic  women,  and  the  usual  species  of  much  too 
sympathetic  women.  There  were  buccaneering  widows 
who  came  to  seize  him,  and  who  griped  umbrellas  under 
their  arms,  as  if  each  umbrella  were  he,  and  each  griper 
had  got  him.  There  were  towering  maiden  ladies  who 
had  seen  better  days,  and  who  came  armed  with  clerical 
testimonials  to  their  theology,  as  if  he  were  Saint  Peter 
with  his  keys.  There  were  gentle  maiden  ladies  who  came 
to  marry  him.  There  were  professional  housekeepers, 
like  non-commissioned  officers,  who  put  him  through 
his  domestic  exercise,  instead  of  submitting  themselves 
to  catecbism.  There  were  languid  invalids,  to  whom 
salary  was  not  so  much  an  object  as  the  comforts  of  a 
private  hospital.  There  were  sensitive  creatures  who 
burst  into  tears  on  being  addressed,  and  had  to  be  re- 
stored with  glasses  of  cold  water.  There  were  respond- 
ents who  came  two  together,  a  highly  promising  one 
and  a  wholly  unpromising  one  :  of  whom  the  promising 
one  answered  all  questions  charmingly,  until  it  would 
at  last  appear  that  she  was  not  a  candidate  at  all,  but 
only  the  friend  of  the  unpromising  one,  who  had  glow- 
ered in  absolute  silence  and  apparent  injury. 

At  last,  when  the  good  wine-merchant's  simple  heart 
was  failing  him,  there  entered  an  applicant  quite  differ- 
ent from  all  the  rest.  A  woman,  perhaps  fifty,  but  look^ 
ing  younger,  with  a  face  remarkable  for  placid  cheerful- 
ness, and  a  manner  no  less  remarkable  for  its  quiet 
expression  of  equability  of  temper.  Nothing  in  her 
dress  could  have  been  changed  to  her  advantage. 
Nothing  in  her  dress  could  have  been  changed  to  her 
advantage.  Nothing  in  the  noiseless  self-possession  of 
her  manner  could  have  been  changed  to  her  advantage. 
Nothing  could  have  been  in  better  unison  with  both, 
than  her  voice  when  she  answered  the  question  :  What 
name  shall  I  have  the  pleasure  of  noting  down?"  with 
the  words,  '*My  name  is  Sarah  Goldstraw,  Mrs.  Gold- 
straw.  My  husband  has  been  dead  many  years,  and  w® 
had  no  family." 

Half  a  dozen  questions  had  scarcely  extracted  as  much 
to  the  purpose  from  any  one  else.  The  voice  dwelt  so 
agreeably  on  Mr.  Wilding's  ear  as  he  made  his  note,  that 
he  was  rather  long  about  it.  When  he  looked  up  again, 
Mrs.  Goldstraw's  glance  had  naturally  gone  round  the 
room,  and  now  returned  to  him  from  the  chimney-piece. 
Its  expression  was  one  of  frank  readiness  to  be  ques- 
tioned, and  to  answer  straight. 

You  will  excuse  my  asking  you  a  few  questions  I" 
bald  the  modest  wine-merchant. 

0,  surely,  sir.    Or  I  shonlrl  hnx    no  business  here," 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


579 


*'  Have  you  filled  the  station  of  housekeeper  before  ?  '* 
"  Only  once.    I  have  lived  with  the  same  widow  lady 
for  twelve  years.    Ever  since  I  lost  my  husband.  She 
Was  an  invalid,  and  is  lately  dead  :  which  ifc  the  occasion 
of  my  now  wearing  black/ 

I  do  not  doubt  that  she  has  left  you  the  best  creden- 
tials ?  " 

I  hope  I  may  say,  the  very  best.  I  thought  it  would 
:ave  trouble,  sir,  if  I  wrote  down  the  name  and  address 
:  f  her  representatives,  and  brought  it  with  me."  Laying 
ci  card  on  the  table. 

**  You  singularly  remind  me,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,"  said 
Wilding,  taking  the  card  beside  him,  of  a  manner  and 
.  tone  of  voice  that  I  was  acquainted  with.  Not  of  an 
individual — I  feel  sure  of  that,  though  I  cannot  recall 
what  it  is  I  have  in  my  mind — but  of  a  general  bearings 
I  ought  to  add  it  was  a  kind,  and  pleasant  one." 

She  smiled,  as  she  rejoined  :  At  least,  I  am  very  glad 
of  that,  sir." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  wine-merchant,  thoughtfully  repeat- 
ing his  last  phrase,  with  a  momemtary  glance  at  his  fu- 
ture housekeeper,  it  was  a  kind  and  pleasant  one.  But 
that  is  the  most  I  can  make  of  it.  Memory  is  sometimes 
like  a  half-forgotten  dream.  I  don't  know  how  it  may 
appear  to  you,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  but  so  it  appears  to  me." 

Probably  it  appeared  to  Mrs.  Goldstraw  in  a  similar 
light,  for  she  quietly  assented  to  the  proposition.  Mr. 
Wilding  then  offered  to  put  himself  at  once  in  communi- 
cation with  the  gentlemen  named  upon  the  card  :  a  firm 
of  proctors,  in  Doctors'  Commons.  To  this  Mrs.  Gold- 
straw  thankfully  assented.  Doctors'  Commons  not  being 
far  off,  Mr.  Wilding  suggested  the  feasibility  of  Mrs. 
Goldstraw's  looking  in  again,  say  in  three  hours'  time. 
Mrs.  Goldstraw  readily  undertook  to  do  so.  In  fine,  the 
result  of  Mr.  Wilding's  injuries  being  eminently  satis- 
factory, Mrs.  Goldstraw  was  that  afternoon  engaged  (on 
her  own  perfectly  fair  terms)  to  come  to-morrow  and  set 
up  her  rest  as  housekeeper  in  Cripple  Corner. 

Tlie  Housekeeper  Speaks. 

On  the  next  day  Mrs.  Goldstraw  arrived,  to  enter  on 
her  domestic  duties. 

Having  settled  herself  in  her  own  room,  without  trou- 
bling the  servants,  and  without  wasting  time,  the  new 
housekeeper  announced  herself  as  waiting  to  be  favoured 
with  any  instructions  which  her  master  might  wish  tc 
give  her.  The  wine-merchant  received  Mrs.  Goldstraw 
in  his  dining-room,  in  w^hich  he  had  seen  her  on  the  pre^ 
vious  day  ;  and,  the  usual  preliminary  civilities  having 
passed  on  either  side,  the  two  sat  down  to  take  counsel 
together  on  the  affairs  of  the  house. 


580  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


About  the  meals,  sir  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Goldstraw.  "  Have 
I  a  large,  or  small,  number  to  provide  for?" 

If  I  can  carry  out  a  certain  old-fashioned  plan  of 
mine,"  replied  Mr.  Wilding,  you  will  have  a  large  num- 
ber to  proride  for.  I  am  a  lonely  single  man,  Mrs.  Gold- 
sjtraw  ;  and  I  hope  to  live  with  all  the  persons  in  my  em- 
ployment as  if  they  were  members  of  my  family.  Until 
that  time  comes,  you  will  only  have  me,  and  the  new 
partner  whom  I  expect  immediately,  to  provide  for. 
What  my  partner's  habits  may  be,  I  cannot  yet  say.  But 
I  may  describe  myself  as  a  man  of  regular  hours,  with 
an  invariable  appetite  that  you  may  depend  upon  to  an 
ounce." 

iVbout  breakfast,  sir?"  asked  Mrs.  Goldstraw.  **Is 
there  anything  particular — ?" 

She  hesitated,  and  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  Her 
eyes  turned  slowly  away  from  her  master,  and  looked 
towards  the  chimney-piece.  If  she  had  been  a  less  ex- 
cellent and  experienced  housekeeper,  Mr.  Wilding  might 
have  fancied  that  her  attention  was  beginning  to  wander 
at  the  very  outset  of  the  interview. 

**  Eight  o'clock  is  my  breakfast  hour,"  he  resumed. 
**  It  is  one  of  my  virtues  to  be  never  tired  of  broiled  bacon, 
and  it  is  one  of  my  vices  to  be  habitually  suspicious  of 
the  freshness  of  eggs."  Mrs.  Goldstraw  looked  back  at 
him,  still  a  little  divided  between  her  master's  chimney- 
piece  and  her  master.  ''I  take  tea,"  Mr.  Wilding  went 
on  ;  and  I  am  perhaps  rather  nervous  and  fidgety  about 
drinking  it,  within  a  certain  time  after  it  is  made.  If 
my  tea  stands  too  long — " 

He  hesitated,  on  his  side,  and  left  the  sentence  unfin- 
ished. If  he  had  not  been  engaged  in  discussing  a  sub- 
ject of  such  paramount  interest  to  himself  as  his  break- 
fast, Mrs.  Goldstraw  might  have  fancied  that  ^inattention 
was  beginning  to  wander  at  the  very  outset  of  the  inter- 
view. 

*'  If  your  tea  stands  too  long,  sir — ?"  said  the  house- 
keeper, politely  taking  up  her  master's  lost  thread. 

'*If  my  tea  stands  too  long,"  repeated  the  wine-mer- 
chant mechanically,  his  mind  getting  farther  and  farther 
away  from  his  breakfast,  and  his  eyes  fixing  themselves 
more  and  more  inquiringly  on  his  housekeeper's  face, 
''If  my  tea —  Dear,  dear  me,  Mrs.  Goldstraw  !  what  *s 
the  manner  and  tone  of  voice  that  you  remind  me  of? 
It  strikes  me  even  more  strongly  to-day,  than  it  did  when 
i  saw  you  yesterday.    What  can  it  be  ?  " 

"  What  can  it  be?"  repeated  Mrs.  Goldstraw. 

She  said  the  words,  evidently  thinking  while  she  spoke 
fihem  of  something  else.  The  wine- merchant,  still  look- 
ing at  her  inquiringly,  observed  that  her  eyes  wandered 
towards  the  chimney-piece  once  more.    They  fixed  on 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


581 


the  portrait  of  his  mother,  which  hung  there,  and  looked 
at  it  with  that  slight  contraction  of  the  brow  which  ac- 
companies a  scarcely  conscious  effort  of  memory.  Mr. 
Wilding  remarked  : 

**  My  late  dear  mother,  when  she  was  five-and-twenty." 

Mrs.  Goldstraw  thanked  him  with  a  movement  of  the 
head  for  being  at  the  pains  to  explain  the  picture,  and 
«aid,  with  a  cleared  brow,  that  it  was  the  portrait  of  a 
very  beautiful  lady. 

Mr.  Wilding,  falling  back  into  his  former  perplexity, 
tried  once  more  to  recover  that  lost  recollection,  associa- 
ted so  closely,  and  yet  so  undiscoverably,  with  his  new 
housekeeper's  voice  and  manner. 

Excuse  my  asking  you  a  question  which  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  me  or  my  breakfast,"  he  said.  ''May  I 
inquire  if  you  have  ever  occupied  any  other  situation 
than  the  situation  of  housekeeper  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  sir.  I  began  life  as  one  of  those  nurses  at 
Foundling. " 

''Why,  that's  it  I"  cried  the  wine-merchant,  pushing 
back  his  chair.  "  By  Heaven  !  Their  manner  is  the  man- 
ner you  remind  me  of  !  '* 

In  an  astonished  look  at  him,  Mrs.  Goldstraw  changed 
colour,  checked  herself,  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
and  sat  still  and  silent. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Mr.  Wilding. 

"  Do  I  understand  that  you  were  in  the  Foundling, 
sir?" 

"Certainly.    I  am  not  ashamed  to  own  it." 

"  Under  the  name  you  now  bear?" 

"  Under  the  name  of  Walter  Wilding." 

''And  the  lady — ?"  Mrs.  Goldstraw  stopped  short 
with  a  look  at  the  portrait  which  was  now  unmistakably 
a  look  of  alarm. 

"You  mean  my  mother,"  interrupted  Mr.  Wilding. 

**Your — mother,"  repeated  the  housekeeper,  a  little 
constrainedly,  "  removed  you  from  the  Foundling  ?  At 
what  age,  sir  ?  " 

"'At  between  eleven  and  twelve  years  old.  It's  quite 
a  romantic  adventure,  Mrs.  Goldstraw." 

He  told  the  story  of  the  lady  having  spoken  to  him, 
while  he  sat  at  dinnei*  with  the  other  boys  in  the  Found- 
ling, and  of  all  that  had  followed,  in  his  innocently  com- 
municative way.  "My  poor  mother  could  never  have 
discovered  me,"  he  added,  "  if  she  had  not  met  with  one 
of  the  matrons  who  pitied  her.  The  matron  consented 
to  touch  the  boy  whose  name  was  *  Walter  Wilding'  as 
she  went  round  the  dinner-tables — and  so  my  mother 
discovered  me  again,  after  having  parted  from  me  as  an 
infant  at  the  Foundling  doors." 

At  these  words  Mrs.  Goldstraw's  hand,  resting  on  the 


582 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS 


table,  dropped  helplessly  into  her  lap.  She  sat,  looking 
at  her  new  master,  with  a  face  that  liad  turned  deadly 
pale,  and  with  eyes  that  expressed  an  unutterable 
dismay. 

What  does  this  mean?"  asked  the  wine-merchant. 

Stop  !  "  he  cried.  is  there  something  else  in  the 
past  time  which  I  ought  to  associate  with  you  ?  I  re- 
member my  mother  telling  m©  of  another  person  at  the 
Foundling,  to  whose  kindness  she  owed  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude. When  she  first  parted  with  me,  as  an  infant,  one 
of  the  nurses  informed  her  of  the  name  that  had  been 
given  to  me  in  the  institution.    You  were  that  nurse  ?  " 

"  God  forgive  me,  sir — I  was  that  nurse  I  " 
God  forgive  you?'* 

We  had  better  get  back,  sir  (if  I  may  make  so  bold 
as  to  say  so),  to  my  duties  in  the  house,"  said  Mrs.  Gold- 
'straw.  Your  breakfast-hour  is  eight.  Do  you  lunch, 
or  dine,  in  the  middle  of  the  day  ?  " 

The  excessive  pinkness  which  Mr.  Bintrey  had  noticed 
in  his  client's  face  began  to  appear  there  once  more.  Mr. 
Wilding  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  mastered  some 
momentary  confusion  in  that  quarter,  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"  Mrs.  Goldstraw,"he  said,  "  you  are  concealing  some^ 
thing  from  me  ! " 

The  housekeeper  obstinately  repeated,  Please  to  fav° 
our  me,  sir,  by  saying  whether  you  lunch,  or  dine,  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  ?  " 

1  don't  know  what  I  do  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  I 
can't  enter  into  my  household  affairs,  Mrs.  Goldstraw, 
till  I  know  why  you  regret  an  act  of  kindness  to  my 
mother,  which  she  always  spoke  of  gratefully  to  the  end 
of  her  life.  You  are  not  doing  me  a  service  by  your  sil- 
ence. You  are  agitating  me,  you  are  alarming  me,  you 
are  bringing  on  the  singing  in  my  head." 

His  hand  went  up  to  his  head  again,  and  the  pink  in 
his  face  deepened  by  a  shade  or  two. 

It's  hard,  sir,  on  just  entering  your  service,"  said  the 
housekeeper,  to  say  what  may  cost  me  the  loss  of  "your 
good- will.  Please  to  remember,  end  how  it  may,  that  1 
only  speak  because  you  have  insisted  on  my  speaking, 
and  because  I  see  that  lam  alarming  you  by  my  silence. 
When  I  told  the  poor  lady,  whose  portrait  you  have  got 
there,  the  name  by  which  her  infant  was  christened  in 
the  Foundling,  I  allowed  myself  to  forget  my  duty.  I'll 
tell  you  the  truth,  as  plainly  as  I  can.  A  few  months 
from  the  time  when  I  had  informed  the  lady  of  her 
baby's  name,  there  came  to  our  institution  in  the  country 
another  lady  (a  stranger),  whose  object  was  to  adopt  one 
of  our  children.  She  brought  the  needful  permission 
with  her,  and  after  looking  at  a  great  many  of  the  child- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


583 


ren,  witliout  being  able  to  make  up  her  mind,  she  took  a 
sudden  fancy  to  one  of  the  babies— a  boy—under  my 
bare.  Try,  pray  try,  to  compose  yourself,  sir  I  It's  no 
use  disguising  it  any  longer.  The  child  the  stranger 
took  away  was  the  child  of  that  lady  whose  portrait 
hangs  there  I " 

Mr.  Wilding  started  to  his  feet.  **  Impossible  ! he 
cried  out  vehemently.  What  are  you  talking  about? 
What  absurd  story  are  you  telling  me  now?  There's 
her  portrait !  Haven't  I  told  you  so  already  ?  The  por- 
trait of  my  mother  ! " 

When  that  unhappy  lady  removed  you  from  the 
Foundling,  in  after  years,"  said  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  gently, 

she  was  the  victim,  and  you  were  the  victim,  sir,  of  a 
dreadful  mistake." 

He  dropped  back  into  his  chair.  *'  The  room  goes 
round  with  me,"  he  said.  "  My  head  !  my  head  ! "  The 
housekeeper  rose  in  alarm,  and  opened  the  windows. 
Before  she  could  get  to  the  door  to  call  for  help,  a  sud- 
den burst  of  tears  relieved  the  oppression  which  had  at 
first  almost  appeared  to  threaten  his  life.  He  signed  en- 
treatingly  to  Mrs.  Goldstraw  not  to  leave  him.  She 
Waited  until  the  paroxysm  of  weeping  had  worn  itself 
out.  He  raised  his  head  as  he  recovered  himself,  and 
looked  at  her  with  the  angry,  unreasoning  suspicion  of  a 
weak  man. 

"Mistake?"  he  said,  wildly  repeating  her  last  word. 
How  do  I  know  you  are  not  mistaken  yourself?" 
'*  There  is  no  hope  that  I  am  mistaken,  sir.    I  will 
tell  you  why,  when  you  are  better  fit  to  hear  it." 
'*Now  I  now  !" 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  warned  Mrs.  Goldstraw 
that  it  would  be  cruel  kindness  to  let  him  comfort  him- 
self a  moment  longer  with  the  vain  hope  that  she  might 
be  wrong.  A  few  words  more  would  end  it — and  those 
Jew  words  she  determind  to  speak. 

'*Ihave  told  you,"  she  said,  *'that  the  child  of  the 
lady,  whose  portrait  hangs  there,  was  adopted  in  its 
infancy,  and  taken  away  by  a  stranger.  I  am  as  certain 
of  what  I  say  as  that  I  am  now  sitting  here,  obliged  tc 
distress  you,  sir,  sorely  against  my  will.  Please  to  carry 
your  mind  on,  now,  to  about  three  months  after  that 
time.  I  was  then  at  the  Foundling,  in  London,  waiting 
to  take  some  children  to  our  institution  in  the  country. 
There  was  a  question  that  day  about  naming  an  infant— 
a  boy — who  had  just  been  received.  We  generally 
named  them  out  of  the  Directory.  On  this  occasion,  one 
of  the  gentlemen  who  managed  the  Hospital  happened 
to  be  looking  over  the  Register.  He  noticed  that  the 
name  of  the  baby  who  had  been  adopted  (*  Walter  Wild- 
ing') was  scratched  out — for  the  reason,  of  course,  that 


584  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  child  had  been  removed  for  good  from  our  care. 
'Here's  a  name  to  let,' he  said.  'Give  it  to  the  new 
foundling  who  has  been  received  to-day/  The  name 
was  given  and  the  child  was  christened.  You,  sir,  were 
that  child." 

The  wine-merchant's  head  dropped  on  his  breast.  **  I 
was  that  child  !"  he  said  to  himself,  trying  helplessly  to 
fix  the  idea  in  his  mind.       I  was  that  child  ! " 

**Not  very  long  after  you  had  been  received  into  the 
Institution,  sir,"  pursued  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  I  left  my 
situation  there,  to  be  married.  If  you  will  remember 
that,  and  if  you  can  give  your  mind  to  it,  you  will  see 
for  yourself  how  the  mistake  happened.  Between 
eleven  and  twelve  years  passed  before  the  lady,  whom 
you  have  believed  to  be  your  mother,  returned  to  the 
Foundling,  to  find  her  son,  and  to  remove  him  to  her 
own  home.  The  lady  only  knew  that  her  infant  had 
been  called  '  Walter  Wilding. '  The  matron,  who  took 
pity  on  her,  could  but  point  out  the  only  *  Walter  Wild- 
ing '  known  in  the  Institution.  I  who  might  have  set 
the  matter  right,  was  far  away  from  the  Foundling  and 
all  that  belonged  to  it.  There  was  nothing — there  was 
really  nothing  that  could  prevent  this  terrible  mistake 
from  taking  place.  I  feel  for  you — I  do  indeed  sir? 
You  must  think — and  with  reason — that  it  was  in  an  evil 
hour  that  I  came  here  (innocently  enough,  I'm  sure),  to 
apply  for  your  housekeeper's  place.  I  feel  as  if  I  was  to 
blame — I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  have  had  more  self-com- 
mand. If  I  had  only  been  able  to  keep  my  face  from 
showing  you  what  that  portrait  and  what  your  own 
words  put  into  my  mind,  you  need  never,  to  your  dying 
day,  have  known  what  you  know  now. " 

Mr.  Wilding  looked  up  suddenly.  The  inbred 
honesty  of  the  man  rose  in  protest  against  the  house- 
keeper's last  words.  His  mind  seemed  to  steady  itself, 
for  the  moment,  under  the  shock  that  had  fallen  on 
it. 

Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  would  have  concealed 
this  from  me  if  you  could  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

'*I  hope  I  should  always  tell  the  truth,  sir,  if  I  was 
asked,"  said  Mrs.  Goldstraw.  And  I  know  it  is  better 
for  me  that  I  should  not  have  a  secret  of  this  sort  weigh- 
ing on  my  mind.  But  is  it  better  for  you  f  What  use 
can  it  serve  now—?" 

"  What  use  ?  Why,  good  Lord  !  if  your  story  is  true — " 

'*  Should  I  have  told  it,  as  I  am  now  situated,  if  it  had 
not  beeu  true  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  wine-merchant.  You. 
must  make  allowance  for  me.  This  dreadful  discovery 
is  something  I  can't  realize  even  yet.  We  loved  each 
other  so  dearly — I  felt  so, fondly  that  1  was  her  son.  She 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


585 


died,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  in  my  arms — she  died  blessing  me 
as  only  a  mother  could  have  blessed  me.  And  now, 
after  all  these  years,  to  be  told  she  was  not  my  mother  ! 

0  me  !  O  me  !  I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying  !  "  he 
cried,  as  the  impulse  of  self  control  under  which  he  had 
spoken  a  moment  since,  flickered,  and  died  out.  "It 
was  not  this  dreadful  grief — it  was  something  else  that 

1  had  it  in  my  mind  to  speak  of.  Yes,  Yes.  You  sur- 
prised me — you  wounded  me  just  now.  You  talked  as 
if  you  would  have  hidden  this  from  me,  if  you  could. 
Don't  talk  in  that  way  again.  It  would  have  been  a 
crime  to  have  hidden  it.  You  r^iean  well,  I  know.  I 
don't  want  to  distress  you — you  are  a  kind-hearted 
woman.  But  you  don't  remember  what  my  position  is. 
She  left  me  all  that  I  possess,  in  the  firm  persuasion  that 
I  was  her  son.  1  am  not  her  son.  I  have  taken  the 
place,  I  have  innocently  got  the  inheritance  of  another 
man.  He  must  be  found  !  How  do  I  know  he  is  not  at 
this  moment  in  misery,  without  bread  to  eat?  He  must 
be  found  !  My  only  hope  of  bearing  up  against  the 
shock  that  has  fallen  on  me,  is  the  hope  of  doing  some- 
thing which  she  would  have  approved.  You  must  know 
more,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  than  you  have  told  me  yet.  Who 
was  the  stranger  who  adopted  the  child  ?  You  must 
have  heard  the  lady's  name?" 

1  never  heard  it,  sir.  I  have  never  seen  her,  or 
heard  of  her  since." 

Did  she  say  nothing  when  she  took  the  child  awayl 
Search  your  memory.    She  must  have  said  something." 

Only  one  thing,  sir,  that  I  can  remember.  It  was  a 
miserably  bad  season,  that  year  ;  and  many  of  the  child- 
ren were  suffering  from  it.  When  she  took  the  baby 
away,  the  lady  said  to  me,  laughing,  '  Don't  be  alarmed 
about  his  health.  He  will  be  brought  up  in  a  better 
climate  than  this — I  am  going  to  take  him  to  Switzer- 
land.' " 

"  To  Switzerland  ?    What  part  of  Switzerland  ?  " 
She  didn't  say,  sir."  ^ 
Only  that  faint  clue?  "  said  Mr.  Wilding.       And  & 
quarter  of  a  century  has  passed  since  the  child  was  taker 
away  ?    What  am  I  to  do. 

I  hope  you  won't  take  offence  at  my  freedom,  sir,'^ 
said  Mrs,  Goldstraw ;  but  why  should  you  distress 
yourself  about  what  is  to  be  done  ?  He  may  not  be  alive 
now,  for  anything  you  know.  And,  if  he  is  alive,  it's 
not  likely  he  can  be  in  any  distress.  The  lady  who 
adopted  him  was  a  bred  and  born  lady— it  was  easy  to 
see  that.  And  she  must  have  satisfied  them  at  the 
Foundling  that  she  could  provide  for  the  child,  or  they 
would  never  have  left  her  take  him  away.  If  I  was  in 
your  place, — please  to  excuse  my  saying  so— I  should 


586  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


comfort  myself  with  rememberiDg  that  I  had  loved  that 
poor  lady  whose  portrait  you  have  got  there — truly 
loved  her  as  my  mother,  and  that  she  had  truly  loved 
me  as  her  son.  All  she  gave  to  you,  she  gave  for  the 
sake  of  that  love.  It  never  altered  while  she  lived  :  and 
it  won't  alter,  I'm  sure,  as  long  as  you  live.  How  can 
you  have  a  better  right,  sir,  to  keep  what  you  have  got 
than  that  ?  " 

Mr.  Wilding's  immovable  honesty  saw  the  fallacy  in 
his  housekeeper's  point  of  view  at  a  glance. 

"  You  don't  understand  me,"  he  said.  ''It's  "because  I 
loved  her  that  I  feel  it  a  duty — a  sacred  duty — to  do  jus- 
tice to  her  son.  If  he  is  a  living  man,  I  must  find  him  : 
for  my  own  sake  as  well  as  his.  I  shall  break  down 
under  this  dreadful  trial,  unless  I  employ  myself — active- 
ly, instantly  employ  myself — in  doing  what  my  consci- 
ence tells  me  ought  to  be  done.  I  must  speak  to  my 
lawyer  ;  I  must  set  my  lawyer  at  work  before  I  sleep  to- 
night." He  approached  a  tube  in  the  wall  of  the  room, 
and  called  down  through  it  to  the  office  below.  Leave 
me  for  a  little,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,"  he  resumed  ;  I  shall 
be  more  composed,  I  shall  be  better  able  to  speak  to  you 
later  in  the  day.  We  shall  get  on  well — I  hope  we  shall 
^et  on  well  together — in  spite  of  what  has  happened.  It 
Isn't  your  fault ;  I  know  it  isn't  your  fault.  There  1 
there  !  shake  hands  ;  and — and  do  the  best  you  can  in 
the  house— I  can't  talk  about  it  now." 

The  door  opened  as  Mrs.  Goldstraw  advanced  towards 
it  ;  and  Mr.  Jarvis  appeared. 

"Send  for  Mr.  Bintrey,"  said  the  wine-merchant. 
"  Say  I  want  to  see  him  directly." 

The  clerk  unconsciously  suspended  the  execution  of 
the  order,  by  announcing  "Mr.  Vendale,"  and  showing 
in  the  new  partner  in  the  firm  of  Wilding  and  Co." 

"  Pray  excuse  me  for  one  moment,  George  Vendale," 
said  Wilding.  "I  have  a  word  to  say  to  Jarvis.  Send 
for  Mr.  Bintrey,"  he  repeated — "  Send  at  once." 

Mr.  Jarvis  laid  a  letter  on  the  table  before  he  left  the 
room. 

"  From  our  correspondent  at  Neuchatel,  1  think,  sir. 
The  letter  has  got  the  Swiss  postmark." 

New  Characters  on  the  Scene. 

The  words,  "The  Swiss  Postmark,"  following  so 
soon  upon  the  housekeeper's  reference  to  Switzerland, 
wrought  Mr.  Wilding's  agitation  to  such  a  remarkable 
height,  that  his  new  partner  could  not  decently  make  a 
pretence  of  letting  it  pass  unnoticed. 

"Wilding,"  he  asked  hurriedly,  and  yet  stopping  short 
and  glancing  around  as  if  for  some  visible  cause  of  his 
state  of  mind :  ' '  Wha  t  is  the  matter  ?  " 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


587 


My  good  George  Vendale/'  returned  the  wine  mer- 
chant, giving  his  hand  with  an  appealing  look,  rather  as 
if  he  wanted  help  to  get  over  some  obstacle,  than  as  if 
he  gave  it  in  welcome  or  salutation  :  "  my  good  George 
Vendale,  so  much  is  the  matter,  that  I  shall  never  be  my- 
self again.  It  is  impossible  that  I  can  ever  be  myself 
again.    For,  in  fact,  I  am  not  myself." 

The  new  partner,  a  brown-cheeked,  handsome  fellow, 
of  about  his  own  age,  with  a  quick,  determined  eye  and 
an  impulsive  manner,  retorted  with  natural  astonish- 
ment :     Not  yourself  ?  " 

"  Not  what  I  supposed  myself  to  be,"  said  Wilding. 
' '  What  in  the  name  of  wonder,  did  you  suppose  yourself 
to  be  that  you  are  not  ?  "  was  the  rejoinder,  delivered  with 
a  cheerful  frankness,  inviting  confidence  from  a  more 
reticent  man,  ''I  may  ask  without  impertinence,  now 
that  we  are  partners." 

"There  again!"  cried  Wilding,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  with  a  lost  look  at  the  other.  Partners  I  I  had 
no  right  to  come  into  this  business.  It  was  never  meant 
for  me.  My  mother  never  meant  it  should  be  mine.  I 
mean,  his  motlier  meant  it  should  be  his — if  I  mean  any- 
thing— or  if  I  am  anybody." 

''Come,  come,"  urged  his  partner,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  and  taking  possession  of  him  with  that  calm  con- 
fidence which  inspires  to  aid  a  weak  one.  Whatever 
has  gone  wrong,  has  gone  wrong  through  no  fault  of 
yours,  I  am  very  sure.  I  was  not  in  this  counting-house 
with  you,  under  the  old  regime,  for  three  years  to  doubt 
you.  Wilding.  We  were  not  younger  men  than  we  are, 
together,  for  that.  Let  me  begin  our  partnership  by  be- 
ing a  serviceable  partner,  and  setting  right  whatever  is 
wrong.    Has  that  letter  anything  to  do  with  it  ?" 

Hah  !  "  said  Wilding,  with  his  hand  to  his  temple. 
There  again !    My  head  !    I  was  forgetting  the  coin- 
cidence.   The  Swiss  postmark." 

At  a  second  glance  I  see  that  the  letter  is  unopened, 
so  it  is  not  very  likely  to  have  much  to  do  with  the  mat- 
ter," said  Vendale,  with  comforting  composure.  Is  it 
for  you,  or  for  us  ?  " 

For  us,"  said  Wilding. 

Suppose  I  open  it  and  read  it  aloud,  to  get  it  out  of 
our  way  ?  " 

Thank  you,  thank  you." 
* '  The  letter  is  only  from  our  champagne-making  friends, 
the  House  at  Neuchatel.  '  Dear  Sir, — We  are  in  receipt 
of  yours  of  the  28th  ult. ,  informing  us  that  you  have 
taken  your  Mr.  Vendale  into  partnership,  whereon  we 
beg  you  to  receive  the  assurance  of  our  felicitations. 
Permit  us  to  embrace  the  occasion  of  specially  commend- 
ing to  you  M.  Jules  Obenreizer.'    Impos^^ible  !" 


588  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Wilding  look  up  in  quick  apprehension,  and  cried, 
-Eh?" 

Impossible  sort  of  name,"  returned  his  partner, 
slightly  —  '  Obenreizer.  "  Of  specially  commending 
to  you  M.  Jules  Obenreizer,  of  Soho-square,  London 
(north  side,)  henceforth  fully  accredited  as  our  a^^-ent, 
and  who  has  already  had  the  honour  of  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  your  Mr.  Vendale,  in  his  (said  Obenrei. 
zer's)  native  country,  Switzerland.'  To  be  sure  !  pooh 
pooh,  what  have  I  been  thinking  of  I  I  remember  now ; 
'  when  traveling  with  his  niece." 

With  his — ?  "  Vendale  had  so  slurred  the  last  word, 
that  Wilding  had  not  heard  it. 

"When  travelling  with  his  Niece.  Obenreizer'^ 
Niece,"  said  Vendale,  in  a  somewhat  superfluously  lucid 
manner.  Niece  of  Obenreizer.  (I  met  them  in  my 
first  Swiss  tour,  travelled  a  little  with  them,  and  lost 
them  for  two  years  ;  met  them  again,  my  Swiss  tour  be-^ 
fore  last,  and  have  lost  them  ever  since.)  Obenreizer. 
Niece  of  Obenreizer.  To  be  sure  I  Passable  sort  oi 
name,  after  all !  '  M.  Obenreizer  is  in  possession  of  our 
absolute  confidence,  and  we  do  not  doubt  you  will  esteem 
his  merits.'  Duly  signed  by  the  House,  '  Defresnier  et 
Cie/  Very  well.  I  undertake  to  see  M.  Obenreizer 
presently,  and  clear  him  out  of  the  way.  That  clears  the 
Swiss  postmark  out  of  the  way.  So  now,  my  dear  Wild- 
ing, tell  what  I  can  clear  out  of  your  way,  and  I'll  find 
a  way  to  clear  it. 

More  than  ready  and  grateful  to  be  thus  taken  charge 
of,  the  honest  wine-merchant  wrung  his  partner's  hand, 
and  beginning  his  tale  by  pathetically  declaring  himself 
an  Impostor,  told  it. 

''It  was  on  this  matter,  no  doubt,  that  you  were  send- 
ing for  Bintrey  when  I  came  in  ?"  said  his  partner,  after 
reflecting. 

It  was." 

*' He  has  experience  and  a  shrewd  head;  I  shall  be 
anxious  to  know  his  opinion.  It  is  bold  and  hazardous 
in  me  to  give  you  mine  before  I  know  his,  but  I  am  not 
good  at  holding  back.  Plainly,  then,  I  do  not  see  these 
circumstances  as  you  see  them.  I  do  not  see  your  posi- 
tion as  you  see  it.  As  to  your  being  an  Impostor,  my 
dear  Wilding,  that  is  simply  absurd,  because  no  man 
can  be  that  without  being  a  consenting  party  to  an  im- 
position. Clearly  you  never  were  so.  As  to  your  enrich- 
ment by  the  lady  who  believed  you  to  be  her  son,  and 
whom  you  forced  to  believe,  on  her  showing,  to  be  your 
mother,  consider  whether  that  did  not  arise  out  of  the 
personal  relations  between  you.  You  gradually  became 
much  attached  to  her ;  she  gradually  became  much  at- 
tached to  you.    It  was  on  you,  personally  you,  as  I  see 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


589 


the  case,  that  she  conferred  these  worldly  advantages ; 
it  was  from  her,  personally  her,  that  you  took  them." 

"  She  supposed  me,"  objected  Wilding,  shaking  his 
head,  *'to  have  a  natural  claim  upon  her,  which  I  had 
not." 

must  admit  that,"  replied  his  partner,  *'tobe  true. 
But  if  she  had  made  the  discovery  that  you  have  made, 
six  months  before  she  died,  do  you  think  it  would  have 
cancelled  the  years  you.  were  together,  and  the  tender- 
ness that  each  of  you  had  conceived  for  the  other,  each 
on  increasing  knowledge  of  the  other  ?  " 

**  What  I  think,"  said  Wilding,  simply  but  stoutly 
holding  to  the  bare  fact,  **can  no  more  change  the  truth 
than  it  can  bring  down  the  sky.  The  truth  is  that  I 
stand  possessed  of  what  was  meant  for  another  man." 

*'He  may  be  dead,"  said  Vendale. 

**He  may  be  alive,"  said  Wilding.  *'And  if  he  is 
alive,  have  I  not — innocently,  I  grant  you  innocently — 
robbed  him  of  enough  ?  Have  I  not  robbed  him  of  the 
exquisite  delight  that  filled  my  soul  when  that  dear 
lady,"  stretching  his  hand  towards  the  picture,  told  me 
she  was  my  mother  ?  Have  I  not  robbed  him  of  all  the 
care  she  lavished  on  me  ?  Have  I  not  even  robbed  him 
of  all  the  devotion  and  duty  that  I  so  proudly  gave  to 
her?  Therefore  it  is  that  I  ask  myself,  George  Ven- 
dale, and  I  ask  you,  where  is  he  ?  What  has  become  of 
him?" 

''Who  can  tell?" 

*'  I  must  try  to  find  out  who  can  tell.  I  must  institute 
inquiries.  I  must  never  desist  from  prosecuting  inquires. 
I  will  live  upon  the  interest  of  my  share — I  ought  to  say 
his  share — in  this  business,  and  will  lay  up  the  rest  for 
him.  When  I  find  him,  I  may  perhaps  throw  myself 
upon  his  generosity  ;  but  I  will  yield  up  all  to  him.  I 
will,  I  swear.  As  I  loved  and  honoured  her,"  said  Wild- 
ing, reverently  kissing  his  hand  towards  the  picture,  and 
then  covering  his  eyes  with  it.  As  I  loved  and  hon- 
oured her,  and  have  a  world  of  reasons  to  be  grateful  to 
her  ! "    And  so  broke  down  again. 

His  partner  rose  from  the  chair  he  had  occupied,  and 
stood  beside  him  with  a  hand  softly  laid  upon  his  shoul- 
der. "  Walter,  I  knew  you  before  to-day  to  be  an  up- 
right man,  with  a  pure  conscience  and  a  fine  heart.  It 
is  very  fortunate  for  me  that  I  have  the  privilege  to 
travel  on  in  life  so  near  to  so  trustworthy  a  man.  I  am 
thankful  for  it.  Use  me  as  your  right  hand,  and  rely 
upon  me  to  the  death.  Don't  think  the  worst  of  me  if  I 
protest  to  you  that  my  uppermost  feeling  at  present  is  a 
confused ,  you  may  call  it  an  unreasonable,  one.  I  feel 
far  more  pity  for  the  lady  and  for  you,  because  you  did 
not  stand  in  your  supposed  relations,  than  I  can  feel  for 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tlie  unknown  man  (if  lie  ever  became  a  man),  because  "he 
was  unconsciously  displaced.  You  have  done  well  in 
sending  for  Mr.  Bintrey.  What  I  think  will  be  a  part  of 
his  advice,  Lknow  is  the  whole  of  mine.  Do  not  move  a 
step  in  this  serious  matter  precipitately.  The  secret 
must  be  kept  among  us  with  great  strictness,  for  to  part 
with  it  lightly  would  be  to  invite  fraudulent  claims,  to 
encourage  a  host  of  knaves,  to  let  loose  a  flood  of  per- 
jury and  plotting.  I  have  no  more  to  say  now,  Walter, 
than  to  remind  you  that  you  sold  me  a  share  in  your  busi- 
ness, expressly  to  save  yourself  from  more  work  than 
your  present  health  is  fit  for,  and  that  I  bought  it  ex- 
pressly to  do  work,  and  mean  to  do  it." 

With  these  words,  and  a  parting  grip  of  his  partner's 
shoulder  that  gave  them  the  best  emphasis  they  could 
have  had,  George  Vandale  betook  himself  presently  to 
the  counting-house,  and  presently  afterwards  to  the 
address  of  M.  Jules  Obenreizer. 

As  he  turned  into  Soho-square,  and  directed  his  steps 
towards  its  north  side,  a  deepened  colour  shot  across  his 
sun -browned  face,  which  Wilding,  if  he  had  been  abet- 
ter observer,  or  had  been  less  occupied  with  his  own 
trouble,  might  have  noticed  when  his  partner  read  aloud 
a  certain  passage  in  their  Swiss  correspondent's  letter, 
which  he  had  not  read  so  distinctly  as  the  rest. 

A  curious  colony  of  mountaineers  has  long  been  en- 
closed within  that  small  flat  London  district  of  Soho. 
Swiss  watch-makers,  Swiss  silver-chasers,  Swiss  jewels 
lers,  Swiss  importers  of  Swiss  musical  boxes  and  Swiss 
toys  of  various  kinds,  drew  close  together  there.  Swiss 
professors  of  music,  painting,  languages  ;  Swiss  artificers 
in  steady  work  ;  Swiss  couriers  ,  and  other  Swiss  servants 
chronically  out  of  place  ;  ind'»2strious  Swiss  laundresses 
and  clear-starchers  ;  mysteriously  existing  Swiss  of  both 
sexes ;  Swiss  creditable  and  Swiss  discreditable  ;  Swiss 
to  be  trusted  by  all  means,  and  Swiss  to  be  trusted  by  no 
means ;  these  diverse  Swiss  particles  are  attracted  to  a 
centre  in  the  district  of  Soho.  Shabby  Swiss  eating- 
houses,  coffee-houses,  and  lodging-houses,  Swiss  drinks 
and  dishes,  Swiss  service  for  Sundays,  and  Swiss  schools 
for  week  days,  are  all  to  be  found  there.  Even  the  nat- 
ive-born English  taverns  drive  a  sort  of  broken-English 
trade ;  announcing  in  their  windows  Swiss  whets  and 
drams,  and  sheltering  in  their  bars  Swiss  skirmishers  of 
love  and  animosity  on  most  nights  in  the  year. 

When  the  new  partner  in  Wilding  and  Co.  rang  the 
bell  of  a  door  bearing  the  blunt  inscription  Obenreizer 
on  a  brass  plate — the  inner  door  of  a  substantial  house, 
whose  ground  story  was  devoted  to  the  sale  of  Swiss 
clocks  he  passed  at  once  into  domestic  Switzerland.  A 
white-tiled  stove  for  winter-time  filled  the  fireplace  of 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


591 


the  room  Into  which  he  was  shown,  the  room's  bare  floor 
was  laid  together  in  a  neat  pattern  of  several  ordinary 
woods,  the  room  had  a  prevalent  air  of  surface  bareness 
and  much  scrubbing  ;  arid  the  little  square  or  flowery 
carpet  by  the  sofa,  and  the  velvet  chimney-board  with 
its  capacious  clocli  and  vases  of  artificial  flowers,  con- 
tended with  that  tone,  as  if,  in  bringing  out  the  whole 
effect,  a  Parisian  had  adapted  a  dairy  to  domestic 
purposes. 

Mimic  water  was  dropping  off  a  mill-wheel  under  the 
clock.  The  visitor  had  not  stood  before  it,  following  it 
with  his  eyes,  a  minute,  when  M.  Obenreizer,  at  his 
elbow,  startled  him  by  saying,  in  very  good  English, 
very  clipped:  "  How  do  you  do?    So  glad." 

I  beg  your  pardon.    I  didn't  hear  you  come  in." 
Not  at  all  I    Sit,  please." 

Releasing  his  visitor's  two  arms,  which  he  had  lightly 
pinioned  at  the  elbows  by  way  of  embrace,  M.  Oben7eizei 
also  sat,  remarking,  with  a  smile  :  You  are  well  ?  So 
glad  !  and  touching  his  elbows  again. 

I  don't  know,"  said  Vendale,  after  exchange  of  salu- 
tations, whether  you  may  yet  have  heard  of  me  froin 
your  House  at  Neuchatel  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes  I" 

"  In  connection  with  Wilding  and  Co.  ?" 
"  Ah,  surely  ! " 

'*  Is  it  not  odd  that  I  should  come  to  you,  in  London 
here,  as  one  of  the  firm  of  Wilding  and  Co.  to  pay  the 
Firm's  respects  ?  " 

**  Not  at  all !  What  did  I  always  observe  when  wc 
were  on  the  mountains  ?  We  call  them  vast ;  but  the 
world  is  so  little.  So  little  is  the  world,  that  one  cannot 
keep  away  from  persons.  There  are  so  few  persons  in 
the  world,  that  they  continually  cross  and  re-cross.  So 
very  little  is  the  world,  that  one  cannot  get  rid  of  a  person. 
Not,"  touching  his  elbows  again,  with  an  ingratiatory 
smile,     that  one  would  desire  to  get  rid  of  you.  " 

**  I  hope  not,  M.  Obenreizer.  " 

"  Please  call  me,  in  your  country,  Mr.  I  call  myself 
so,  for  I  love  your  country.  If  I  could  be  English  !  But 
I  am  born.  And  you  ?  Though  descended  from  so  fine  a 
family,  you  have  had  the  condescension  to  come  into 
trade  ?  Stop  though.  Wines  ?  "  Is  it  trade  in  England 
or  profession  ?     Not  fine  art  ?  " 

Mr.  Obenreizer,"  returned  Vendale,  somewhat  out  of 
countenance,  I  was  but  a  silly  young  fellow,  just  of 
age,  when  I  first  had  the  pleasure  of  travelling  with  you, 
and  when  you  and  I  and  Mademoiselle  your  niece-— whp 
is  well?" 

'*  Thank  you.    Who  is  well. " 

* '—Shared  some  slight  glacier  dangers  together.  If, 


592  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


witii  a  boy's  vanity,  T  ratlier  vaunted  nay  family,  Tbope 
I  did  so  of  a  kind  of  introduction  of  myself.  It  was  very 
weak,  and  in  very  bad  taste  ;  but  perhaps  you  know  our 
JEnglish  proverb,  '  Live  and  learn.*  " 

**  You  make  too  much  of  it,"  returned  the  Swiss.  And 
what  the  devil  I    After  all,  yours  was  a  fine  family." 

George  Vendale's  betrayed  a  little  vexation  as  he  re- 
joined :  Well  !  I  was  strongly  attached  to  my  parents, 
and  when  we  first  travelled  together,  Mr.  Obenreizer,  I 
was  in  the  first  flush  of  coming  into  what  my  father  and 
mother  left  me.  So  I  hope  it  may  have  been,  after  all, 
more  youthful  openness  of  speech  and  heart  than  boast- 
fulness." 

All  openness  of  speech  and  heart !  No  boastfulness  I " 
cried  Obenreizer.  *'  You  tax  yourself  too  heavily.  You 
tax  yourself,  my  faith  !  as  if  you  were  yonr  Government 
taxing  you  I  Besides,  it  commenced  with  me.  I  re- 
member that  evening  in  the  boat  upon  the  lake,  floating 
among  the  reflections  of  the  mountains  and  valleys,  the 
the  crags  and  pine  woods,  which  were  my  earliest  re- 
membrance, I  drew  a  word -picture  of  my  sordid  child* 
hood.  Of  our  poor  hut,  by  the  waterfall  which  my 
mother  showed  to  travellers  ;  of  the  cow-shed  where  I 
slept  with  the  cow  ;  of  my  idiot  half-brother  always  sit- 
ting at  the  door,  or  limping  down  the  Pass  to  beg  ;  of  my 
half-sister  always  spinning  and  resting  her  enormous 
goitre  on  a  great  stone  ;  of  my  being  a  famished,  naked 
little  wretch  of  two  or  three  years,  when  they  were  men 
and  women  with  hard  hands  to  beat  me,  I,  the  only  chil^ 
of  my  father's  second  marriage — if  it  even  was  a  marriage. 
What  more  natural  than  for  you  to  compare  notes  with 
me,  and  say,  *'  We  are  as  one  by  age  ;  at  that  same  time  I 
sat  upon  my  mother's  lap  in  my  father's  carriage,  rolling 
through  the  rich  English  streets,  all  luxury  surrounding 
me,  all  squalid  poverty  kept  far  from  me.  Such  is  my 
earliest  remembrance  as  opposed  to  yours  ! '  " 

Mr.  Obenreizer  was  a  black-haired  young  man  of  a 
dark  complexion,  through  whose  swarthy  skin  no  red 
glow  ever  shone.  When  colour  would  have  come  into 
another  cheek,  a  hardly  discernible  beat  would  come  into 
his,  as  if  the  machinery  for  bringing  up  the  ardent  blood 
were  there,  but  the  machinery  were  dry.  He  was  ro- 
bustly made,  well  proportioned,  and  had  handsome  feat- 
ures. Many  would  have  perceived  that  some  surface 
change  in  him  would  have  set  them  more  at  their  ease 
with  him,  without  being  able  to  define  what  change.  If 
his  lips  could  have  been  made  much  thicker,  and  his  neck 
much  thinner^ they  would  have  found  their  want  supplied* 
But  the  great  Obenreizer  peculiarity  was,  that  a  cer- 
tain nameless  film  would  come  over  his  eyes — apparently 
by  the  action  of  his  own  will — which  would  impenetra- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


593 


bly  veil,  not  only  from  those  tellers  of  tales,  but  from 
his  face  at  large,  every  expression  save  one  of  attention. 
It  by  no  means  followed  that  his  attention  should  be 
wholly  given  to  the  person  with  whom  he  spoke,  or  even 
wholly  bestowed  on  present  sounds  and  objects.  Rath- 
er, it  was  a  comprehensive  watchfulness  of  everything 
he  had  in  his  own  mind,  and  everything  that  he  knew  to 
be,  or  suspected  to  be,  in  the  minds  of  other  men. 

At  this  stage  of  the  conversation,  Mr.  Obenreizer's  film 
came  over  him. 

"  The  object  of  my  present  visit,"  said  Vendale,  '*  is,  I 
need  hardly  say,  to  assure  you  of  the  friendliness  of 
Wilding  and  Co. ,  and  of  the  goodness  of  your  credit 
with  us,  and  of  our  desire  to  be  of  service  to  you.  We 
hope  shortly  to  offer  you  our  hospitality.  Things  are 
not  quite  in  train  with  us  yet,  for  my  partner,  Mr.  Wild- 
ing, is  reorganizing  the  domestic  part  of  our  establish- 
ment, and  is  interrupted  by  some  private  affairs.  You 
don't  know  Mr.  Wilding,  I  believe  ?  " 

Mr.  Obenreizer  did  not. 
You  must  come  together  soon.  He  will  be  glad  to 
have  made  your  acquaintance,  and  I  think  I  may  predict 
that  you  will  be  glad  to  have  made  his.  You  have  not 
been  long  established  in  London,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Oben- 
reizer ?  " 

It  is  only  now  that  I  have  undertaken  this  agency." 
Mademoiselle  your  niece — is — not  married  ?  " 
Not  married." 
George  Vendale  glanced  about  him,  as  if  for  any  tokens 
of  her. 

She  has  been  in  London  ?  " 
''She  is  in  London." 

"  When,  and  where,  might  I  have  the  honour  of  re- 
calling myself  to  her  remembrance  ?  " 

Mr.  Obenreizer,  discarding  his  film  and  touching  his 
visitor's  elbows  as  before,  said  lightly:    Come  up-stairs." 

Fluttered  enough  by  the  suddenness  with  which  the 
interview  he  had  sought  was  coming  upon  him  after  all, 
George  Vendale  followed  up-stairs.  In  a  room  over  the 
chamber  he  had  just  quitted — a  room  also  Swiss-appoint- 
ed— ^a  young  lady  sat  near  one  of  the  three  windows, 
working  at  an  embroidery- fame  ;  and  an  old  lady  sat 
with  her  face  turned  close  to  another  white-tiled  stove 
(though  it  was  summer,  and  the  stove  was  not  lighted), 
cleaning  gloves.  The  young  lady  wore  an  unusual 
Quantity  of  fair  bright  hair,  very  prettily  braided  about 
a  rather  rounder  white  forehead  than  the  average  Eng- 
lish type,  and  so  her  face  might  have  been  a  shade — or 
say  a  light — rounder  than  the  average  English  face,  and 
her  figure  slightly  rounder  than  the  average  English 
girl  at  nineteen.    A  remarkafel©  indica«tji©»  of  fre^om 


594  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  grace  of  limb,  in  her  quiet  attitude,  and  a  wonderful 
purity  and  freshness  of  colour  in  her  dimpled  face  an<3 
bright  gray  eyes,  seemed  fraught  with  mountain  air. 
Switzerland  too,  though  the  general  fashion  of  her  dress 
was  English,  peeped  out  of  the  fanciful  bodice  she  wore, 
and  lurked  in  the  curious  clocked  red  stocking,  and  in 
its  little  silver-buckled  shoe.  As  to  the  elder  lady,  sit- 
ting with  her  feet  apart  upon  the  lower  brass  ledge  oi 
the  stove,  supporting  a  lap-full  of  gloves  while  she 
cleaned  one  stretched  on  her  left  hand,  she  was  a  true 
Swiss  impersonation  of  another  kind  ;  from  the  breadth 
of  her  cushion-like  back,  and  the  ponderosity  of  her  re- 
spectable legs  (if  the  word  be  admissible),  to  the  black 
velvet  band  tied  tightly  round  her  throat  for  the  repres- 
sion of  a  rising  tendency  to  goitre  ;  or,  higher  still,  to 
her  great  copper-coloured  car-rings  ;  or,  higher  still,  to 
her  head-dress  of  black  gauze  stretched  on  wire. 

Miss  Marguerite,"  said  Obenreizer  to  the  young  lady, 
*^'do  you  recollect  this  gentleman?" 

"  I  think,"  she  answered,  rising  from  her  seat,  sur- 
prised and  a  little  confused  ;  'Mt  is  Mr.  Vendale?" 

I  think  it  is,"  said  Obenreizer,  dryly.  **  Permit  me, 
Mr.  Vendale.    Madame  Dor. " 

The  elder  lady  by  the  stove,  with  the  glove  stretched 
on  her  left  hand,  like  a  glovers  sign,  half  got  up,  half 
looked  over  her  broad  shoulder,  and  wholly  plumped 
down  again  and  rubbed  away. 

^* Madame  Dor."  said  Obenreizer,  smiling,  "is  so  kin(j 
as  to  keep  me  free  from  stain  or  tear.  Madame  Doi 
humours  my  weakness  for  being  always  neat,  and  devotei 
her  time  to  removing  everyone  of  my  specks  and  spots." 

Madame  Dor,  with  the  stretched  glove  in  the  air,  and 
her  eyes  closely  scrutinizing  its  palm,  discovered  a  tough 
spot  in  Mr.  Obenreizer  at  that  instant,  and  rubbed  hard 
at  him.  George  Vendale  took  his  seat  by  the  embroid- 
ery-frame (having  first  taken  the  fair  right  hand  that  his 
entrance  had  checked),  and  glanced  at  the  gold  cross 
that  dipped  into  the  bodice,  with  something  of  the  devo- 
tion of  a  pilgrim  who  had  reached  his  shrine  at  last. 
Obenreizer  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  his 
thumbs  in  his  waistcoat- pockets,  and  became  filmy. 

*'He  was  saying  downstairs.  Miss  Obenreizer,"  oh' 
served  Vendale,  "  that  the  world  is  so  small  a  place, 
that  people  cannot  escape  one  another.  I  have  found  it 
much  too  large  for  me  since  I  saw  you  last." 

Have  you  travelled  so  for,  then  ?  "  she  inquired. 

* '  Not  so  far,  for  I  have  only  gone  back  to  Switzerland 
each  year  ;  but  I  could  have  wished — and  indeed  I  have 
wished  very  often — that  the  little  world  did  not  afford 
such  opportunities  for  long  escapes  as  it  does.  If  he  had 
been  less,  I  might  have  found  my  fellow-travellers 
sooner,  you  know." 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


596 


The  pretty  Marguerite  coloured,  and  very  slightly 
glanced  in  the  direction  of  Madame  Dor. 

You  find  us  at  length,  Mr.  Vendale.  Perhaps  you 
may  lose  us  again." 

**  I  trust  not.  The  curious  coincidence  that  has  ena- 
bled me  to  find  you,  encourages  me  to  hope  not." 

''What  is  that  coincidence,  sir,  if  you  please?"  A 
dainty  little  native  touch  in  this  turn  of  speech,  and  in 
its  tone  made  it  perfectly  captivating,  thought  George 
Vendale,  when  again  he  noticed  an  instantaneous  glance 
towards  Madame  Dor.  A  caution  seemed  to  be  conveyed 
in  it,  rapid  flash  though  it  was  ;  so  he  quickly  took  heed 
of  Madame  Dor  from  that  time  forth. 

**  It  is  that  I  happened  to  have  become  a  partner  in  a 
House  of  business  in  London,  to  which  Mr.  Obenreizer 
happened  this  very  day  to  be  expressly  recommended  : 
and  that,  too,  by  another  house  of  business  in  Switzer- 
land, in  which  (as  it  turns  out)  we  both  have  commercial 
interest.    He  has  not  told  you  ?  " 

*' Ah  !  "  cried  Obenreizer,  striking  in,  filmless.  **No. 
I  had  not  told  Miss  Marguerite.  The  world  is  so  small 
and  so  monotonous  that  a  surprise  is  worth  having  in 
such  a  little  jog-trot  place.  It  is  as  he  tells  you,  Miss 
Marguerite.  He,  of  so  fine  a  family,  and  so  proudly 
bred,  has  condescended  to  trade.  To  trade  !  Like  us 
poor  peasants  who  have  risen  from  ditches  !  " 

A  cloud  crept  over  the  pale  brow,  and  she  cast  down 
her  eyes. 

"  Why,  it  is  good  for  trade  I"  pursued  Obenreizer,  en- 
thusiastically. It  ennobles  trade  !  It  is  the  misfortune 
of  trade,  it  is  its  vulgarity,  that  any  low  people — for  ex- 
ample, we  poor  peasants — may  take  to  it  and  climb  by 
it.  See  you,  my  dear  Vendale  !  "  He  spoke  with  great 
energy.  The  father  of  Miss  Marguerite,  my  eldest 
half-brother,  more  than  two  times  your  age  or  mine,  if 
living  now,  wandering  without  shoes,  almost  without 
rags,  from  that  wretched  Pass — wandered — wandered — 
got  to  be  fed  with  the  mules  and  dogs  at  an  Inn  in  the 
main  valley  far  away^got  to  be  Boy  there — got  to  be 
Ostler — got  to  be  Waiter — got  to  be  Cook — got  to  be 
Landlord.  As  Landlord,  he  took  me  (could  he  take  lilie 
idiot  beggar  his  brother,  or  the  spinning  monstrosity  his 
sister  ?)  to  put  as  pupil  to  the  famous  watchmaker,  his 
neighbour  and  friend.  His  wife  dies  when  Miss  Mar- 
guerite is  bom.  What  is  his  will,  and  what  are  his 
words,  to  me,  when  he  dies,  she  being  between  girl  and 
woman  I  *A11  for  Marguerite,  except  so  much  by  the 
year  for  you.  You  are  young,  but  I  make  her  your  ward, 
for  you  were  of  the  obscurest  and  the  poorest  peasantry^, 
and  so  was  I,  and  so  was  her  mother  ;  we  were  abject 
peasants  all,  and  you  will  remember  it.'    The  thing  is 


596 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


equally  true  of  most  of  my  countryman,  now  in  trade  in 
this  your  London  quarter  of  Soho.  Peasants  once  ;  low- 
born drudging  Swiss  Peasants.  Then  how  good  and^ 
great  for  trade  : here,  from  having  been  warm,  he  be- 
came playfully  jubilant,  and  touched  the  young  wine- 
merchant's  elbows  again  with  his  light  embrace :  **  to 
be  exalted  by  gentlemen." 

•*I  do  not  think  so,**  said  Marguerite,  with  a  flushed 
e'heeky  and  a  look  away  from  tho  visitor,  that  was  al- 
most defiant.  "I  think  it  is  as  much  exalted  by  us 
peasants." 

**Fie,  fie.  Miss  Marguerite,"  said  Obenreizer.  You 
speak  in  proud  England." 

I  speak  in  proud  earnest,"  she  answered,  quietly  re- 
suming her  work,  and  I  am  not  English  but  a  Swiss 
peasant's  daughter.*' 

There  was  a  dismissal  of  the  subject  in  her  words, 
which  Vendale  could  not  contend  against.  He  only  said 
in  an  earnest  manner,  '*  I  most  heartily  agree  with  you^ 
Miss  Obenreizer,  and  I  have  already  said  so,  as  Mr.  Ob- 
enreizer will  bear  witness, "  which  he  by  no  means  did, 
"  in  this  house." 

Now,  Vendale's  eyes  wero  quick  eyes,  and  sharply 
watching  Madame  Dor  by  times,  noted  something  in  the 
broad  back  view  of  that  lady.  There  was  considerable 
pantomimic  expression  in  her  glove  cleaning.  It  had 
been  very  softly  done  when  he  spoke  with  Marguerite, 
or  it  had  altogether  stopped,  like  the  action  of  a  listen- 
er. When  Obenreizer's  peasant-speech  came  to  an  end, 
she  rubbed  most  vigorously,  as  if  applauding  it.  And 
once  or  twice,  as  the  glove  (which  she  always  held  be- 
fore her  a  little  above  her  face)  turned  in  the  air,  or  as 
this  finger  went  down,  or  that  went  up,  he  even  fancied 
that  it  made  some  telegraphic  communication  to  Oben- 
reizer :  whose  back  was  certainly  never  turned  upon  it, 
though  he  did  not  seem  at  all  to  heed  it. 

Vendale  observed  too,  that  in  Marguerite's  dismissal 
of  the  subject  twice  forced  upon  him  to  his  misrepresen- 
tation, there  was  an  indignant  treatment  of  her  guardian 
which  she  tried  to  check :  as  though  she  would  have 
flamed  out  against  him,  but  for  the  influence  of  fear.  He 
also  observed — though  this  was  not  much — that  he  never 
advanced  within  the  distance  of  her  at  which  he  first 
placed  himself :  as  though  there  were  limits  fixed  be- 
tween them.  Neither  had  he  ever  spoken  of  her  with- 
out the  prefix  *'  Miss,"  though  whenever  he  uttered  it, 
it  was  with  the  faintest  trace  of  an  air  of  mockery.  And 
now  it  occurred  to  Vendale  for  the  first  time  that  some- 
thing curious  in  the  man,  which  he  had  never  before 
been  able  to  define,  was  definable  as  a  certain  subtle  es- 
Qence  of  mockery  that  eluded  touch  or  analysis.    He  felt 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


m 


convinced  that  Marguerite  was  in  some  sort  a  prisoner  as 
to  her  own  free  will — thoup^h  she  held  her  own  against 
those  two  combined,  by  the  force  of  her  character,  which 
was  nevertheless  inadequate  to  her  release.  To  feel  con- 
vinced of  this,  was  not  to  feel  less  disposed  to  love  her 
than  he  had  always  been.  In  a  word,  he  was  desperately 
in  love  with  her,  and  thoroughly  determined  to  pursue 
the  opportunity  which  had  opened  at  last. 

For  the  present,  he  merely  touched  upon  the  pleasure 
oliat  Wilding  &  Co.  would  soon  have  in  entreating  Miss 
Obenreizer  to  honour  their  establishment  with  her  pres- 
ence— a  curious  old  place,  though  a  bachelor  house  with- 
al— and  so  did  not  protract  his  visit  beyond  such  a  visit's 
ordinary  length.  Going  downstairs,  conducted  by  -his 
host,  he  found  the  Obenreizer  counting-house  at  the 
back  of  the  entrance-hall,  and  several  shabby  men  in 
butlandish  garments  hanging  about,  whom  Obenreizer 
put  aside  that  he  might  pass,  with  a  few  words  in 
patois. 

"  Countrymen,"  he  explained,  as  he  attended  Yendale 
to  the  door.  Poor  compatriots.  Grateful  and  attach- 
ed, like  dogs  I    Good-by.    To  meet  again.    So  glad  I  " 

Two  more  light  touches  on  his  elbows  dismissed  him 
into  the  street. 

Sweet  Marguerite  at  her  frame,  and  Madame  Dor's 
broad  back  at  her  telegraph,  floated  before  him  to  Crip- 
ple Corner.  On  his  arrival  there.  Wilding  was  closeted 
with  Bintrey.  The  cellar  door  happening  to  be  open, 
Vendale  lighted  a  candle  in  a  cleft  stick,  and  went  do\vn 
tor  a  cellarous  stroll.  Graceful  Marguerite  floated  be- 
fore him  faithfully,  but  Madame  Dor's  broad  back  re- 
mained outside. 

The  vaults  were  very  spacious,  and  very  old.  There 
had  been  a  stone  crypt  down  there,  when  bygones  were 
not  bygones  ;  some  said,  part  of  a  monkish  refectory  ; 
aome  said,  of  a  chapel ;  some  said,  of  a  Pagan  temple.  It 
was  all  one  now.  Let  who  would  make  what  he  liked 
"'f  a  crumbled  pillar  and  a  broken  arch  or  so.  Old  Time 
had  made  what  he  liked  of  it,  and  was  quite  indifferent 
to  contradiction. 

The  close  air,  the  musty  smell,  and  the  thunderous 
rumbling  in  the  streets  above,  as  being  out  of  the  routine 
of  ordinary  life,  went  well  enough  with  the  picture  of 
pretty  Marguerite  holding  her  own  against  those  two. 
So  Vendale  went  on  until,  at  a  turning  in  the  vaults,  ho 
saw  a  light  like  the  light  he  carried. 

"  Oh  I  You  are  here,  are  you,  Joey  ?  " 
Oughtn't  it  rather  to  go,  '  Oh  ?  You*re  here,  are  you. 
Master  George  ?  "    For  its  my  business  to  be  here.  Bnk 
it  ain't  yourn." 

Don't  grumble,  Joey.** 


59B 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


**  Oh  !  I  don't  grum'ble,"  returned  the  Cellarman. 

If  anything  grumbles,  it's  what  Tve  took  in  through 
the  pores  ;  it  ain't  me.  Have  a  care  as  something  vi  yon 
don't  begin  a  grumbling,  Master  George.  Stop  here  long 
enough  for  the  wapours  to  work,  and  they'll  be  at  it." 

His  present  occupation  consisted  of  poking  his  head 
into  the  bins,  making  measurements  and  mental  calcu- 
lations, and  entering  them  in  a  rhinoceros-hide-looking 
siote-book,  like  a  piece  of  himself. 

**  They'll  be  at  it,"  he  resumed,  laying  the  wooden  rod 
that  he  measured  with  across  two  casks,  entering  his 
last  calculation,  and  straightening  his  back,  "trust 'em  I 
And  so  you've  regularly  come  into  the  business.  Master 
George  ?  " 

"  Regularly.    I  hope  you  don't  object,  Joey  ?  " 
/don't  bless  yoa.    But  Wapours  objects  that  you're 
too  young.    You're  both  on  you  too  young." 

*  We  shall  get  over  that  objection  day  by  day,  Joey." 

*  *  Ay,  Master  George  ;  but  I  shall  day  by  day  get  over 
the  objection  that  I*m  too  old,  and  so  I  sha'n't  be  cap- 
able of  seeing  much  improvement  in  you." 

The  retort  so  tickled  Joey  Ladle  that  he  grunted  forth 
a  laugh  and  delivered  it  again,  grunting  forth  another 
laugh  after  the  second  edition  of  "improvement  in 
you." 

"  But  what's  no  laughing  matter,  Master  George,"  he 
resumed,  straightening  his  back  once  more,  **is,  that 
young  Master  Wilding  has  gone  and  changed  the  luck. 
Mark  my  words.  He  has  changed  the  luck,  and  he'll 
find  it  oat.  /ain't  been  down  here  all  my  life  for  noth- 
ing !  /know  by  what  I  notices  down  here,  when  it's  a- 
going  to  rain,  when  it's  a-going  to  hold  up,  when  it's  a- 
going  to  blow,  when  it's  a-going  to  be  calm.  /  know, 
by  what  I  notices  down  here,  when  the  luck's  changed, 
quite  as  well." 

*'  Has  this  growth  on  the  roof  anything  to  do  with 
your  divination  ?"  asked  Vendale,  holding  his  light  to* 
wards  a  gloomy,  ragged  growth  of  dark  fungus,  \  enr 
dent  from  the  arches  with  a  very  disagreeable  and  re- 
pellent effect.  We  are  famous  for  this  growth  in  thi!:^ 
vault,  aren't  we  ?  " 

We  are.  Master  George,"  replied  Joey  Ladle,  mov- 
ing a  step  or  two  away,  and  if  you'll  be  advised  by 
me,  you'll  let  it  alone. 

Taking  up  the  rod  just  now  laid  across  the  two  casks, 
and  faintly  moving  the  languid  fungus  with  it,  Vendale 
asked,    Ay,  indeed?    Why  so?" 

**  Why,  not  so  much  because  it  rises  from  the  casks  of 
wine,  and  may  leave  you  to  judge  what  sort  of  stuff  a 
Cellarman  takes  into  himself  when  he  walks  in  the 
same  all  the  days  of  his  life,  nor  yet  so  much  because  at 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


a  stage  of  its  growth  it's  maggots,  and  you'll  fetch  'em 
down  upon  you,"  returned  Joey   Ladle,  still  keepinp' 
away,  **  as  for  another  reason,  Master  George." 
**  What  other  reason  ? 

'*  (I  wouldn't  keep  on  touchin*  it,  if  I  was  you  sir.) 
I'll  tell  you  if  you'll  come  out  of  the  place.    First,  take 
a  look  at  its  colour.  Master  George." 
I  am  doing  so." 

Done,  sir.  Now,  come  out  of  the  place." 
He  moved  away  with  his  light,  and  Vendale  followed 
with  his.  When  Vendale  came  up  with  him,  and  they 
were  going  back  together,  Vendale,  eyeing  him  as  they 
walked  through  the  arches,  said  :  "Well,  Joey?  The 
colour." 

"  Is  it  like  clotted  blood,  Master  George  1- " 
"Like  enough,  perhaps." 

"  More  than  enough,  I  think,"  muttered  Joey  Ladles 
shaking  his  head  solemnly. 

"Well,  say  it  is  like  ;  say  it  is  exactly  like.  What 
then?" 

"  Master  George,  they  do  say — " 
'*Who?" 

"  How  should  T  know  who  ?  "  rejoined  the  Cellarman, 
apparently  much  exasperated  by  the  unreasonable  na- 
ture of  the  question.  "Them  I  Them  as  says  pretty 
well  everything,  you  know.  How  should  I  know  who 
They  are,  if  you  don't  ?" 

"True.  Goon." 

"  They  do  say  that  the  man  that  gets  by  any  accident 
a  piece  of  that  dark  growth  right  upon  his  breast,  will 
for  sure  and  certain,  die  by  murder." 

As  Vendale  laughingly  stopped  to  meet  the  Cellarman's 
eyes,  which  he  had  fastened  on  his  light  while  dreamily 
saying  those  words,  he  suddenly  became  conscious  of  be- 
ing struck  upon  his  own  breast  by  a  heavy  hand.  In- 
stantly following  with  his  eyes  the  action  of  the  hand 
that  struck  him — which  was  his  companion's — he  saw 
it  had  beaten  off  his  breast  a  web  or  clot  of  the  fungus, 
even  then  floating  to  the  ground. 

For  a  moment  he  turned  upon  the  Cellarman  almost 
as  scared  a  look  as  the  Cellarman  turned  upon  him.  But 
in  another  moment  they  had  reached  Xhe  daylight  at  the 
foot  of  the  cellar-steps,  and  before  hf*  cheerfully  sprang 
up  them,  he  blew  out  his  candle  and  the  superstition 
together. 

Mcit  Wilding, 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day.  Wilding  went  out 
alone,  after  leaving  a  message  with  his  clerk.  "If  Mr. 
Vendale  should  ask  for  me,"  he  said,  or  if  Mr.  Bintrey 
should  call  tell  them  I  am  gone  to  the  Foundling."  AU 


600 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


that  his  partner  Lad  said  to  him,  all  tliat  his  lawyer,  fol- 
lowing  on  tlie  same  side,  could  urge,  had  left  him  per- 
sisting unshaken  in  his  own  point  of  view.  To  find  the 
lost  man  whose  place  he  had  usurped,  was  now  the 
paramount  interest  of  his  life,  and  to  inquire  at  the 
Foundling,  was  plainly  to  take  the  first  step  in  the  direc- 
tion of  discovery.  To  the  Foundling,  accordingly,  the 
wine  merchant  now  went. 

The  once  familiar  aspect  of  the  building  was  altered 
to  him,  as  the  look  of  the  portrait  over  the  chimney- 
piece  was  altered  to  him.  His  one  dearest  association 
with  the  place  which  had  sheltered  his  childhood  had 
been  broken  away  from  it  forever.  A  strange  reluc- 
tance possessed  him  when  he  stated  his  business  at  the 
door.  His  head  ached  as  he  sat  alone  in  the  waiting- 
room  while  the  treasurer  of  the  institution  was  being 
sent  for  to  see  him.  When  the  interview  began,  it  wag 
only  by  a  painful  effort  that  he  could  compose  himself 
sufficiently  to  mention  the  nature  of  his  errand. 

The  Treasurer  listened  with  a  face  which  promised  all 
needful  attention,  and  promised  nothing  more. 

We  are  obliged  to  be  cautious,"  he  said,  when  it 
came  to  his  turn  to  speak,  about  all  inquiries  which 
are  made  by  strangers." 

"  You  can  hardly  consider  me  a  stranger,"  answered 
Wilding,  simply,  '*I  was  one  of  your  poor  lost  children 
here,  in  the  bygone  time." 

The  Treasurer  politely  rejoined  that  this  circumstance 
inspired  him  with  a  special  interest  in  his  visitor.  But 
he  pressed,  nevertheless,  for  that  visitor's  motive,  in 
making  his  inquiry.  Without  further  preface.  Wilding 
told  him  his  motive,  suppressing  nothing.  The  Treas- 
urer rose,  and  led  the  way  into  the  room  in  which  the 
registers  of  the  institutions  were  kept.  All  the  infor- 
mation which  our  books  can  give  is  heartily  at  your  ser- 
vice," he  said.  After  the  time  that  has  elapsed,  I 
am  afraid  it  is  the  only  information  we  have  to  offer 
you." 

The  books  were  consulted,  and  the  entry  was  found 
expressed  as  follows  : 

3d  March,  1836.  Adopted,  and  removed  from  the 
Foundling  Hospital,  a  male  infant,  named  Walter  Wild- 
ing. Name  and  condition  of  the  person  adopting  the 
child — Mrs.  Jane  Ann  Miller,  widow.  Address — Lime- 
Tree  Lodge,  Groombridge  Wells.  References — the  Rev- 
erend John  Barker,  Groombridge  Wells ;  and  Me  ssrs. 
Giles,  Jeremie,  and  Giles,  bankers,  Lombard  street." 

**  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  the  wine-merchant.  "  Had  you 
no  after-communication  with  Mrs.  Miller  ?  " 

"  None — or  some  reference  to  it  must  have  appearecil 
in  this  book.** 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


601 


"  May  1  take  a  copy  of  the  entry  ? 

"  Certainly  I  You  are  a  little  agitated.  Let  me  make 
a  copy  for  you.'' 

My  only  chance,  I  suppose,"  said  Wilding,  looking 
sadly  at  the  copy,  'Ms  to  inquire  at  Mrs.  Miller's  resi- 
dence, and  to  try  if  her  references  can  help  me  ?  " 

That  is  the  only  chance  I  see  at  present,"  aDSwered 
the  Treasurer.  "I  heartily  wish  I  could  have  been  of 
some  further  assistance  to  you." 

With  these  farewell  words  to  comfort  him,  Wilding 
set  forth  on  the  journey  of  investigation  which  began 
from  the  Foundling  doors.  The  first  stage  to  make  for, 
was  plainly  the  house  of  business  of  the  bankers  in 
Lombard -street.  Two  of  the  partners  in  the  firm  were 
inaccessible  to  chance-visitors  when  he  asked  for  them. 
The  third,  after  raising  certain  inevitable  diflScultieSj 
consented  to  let  a  clerk  examine  the  Ledger  marked 
with  the  initial  letter  '*M."  The  account  of  Mrs.  Mil- 
ler, widow,  of  Groombridge  Wells,  was  found.  Two 
long  lines,  in  faded  ink,  were  drawn  across  it ;  and  at 
the  bottom  of  the  page  there  appeared  this  note  :  Ac- 
count closed,  September  30th,  1837." 

So  the  first  stage  of  the  journey  was  reached — and  so 
it  ended  in  No  Thoroughfare  !  After  sending  a  note  to 
Cripple  Corner  to  inform  his  partner  that  his  absence 
might  be  prolonged  for  some  hours,  Wilding  took  his 
place  in  the  train,  and  started  for  the  second  stage  on  the 
journey — Mrs.  Miller's  residence  at  Groombridge  Wells. 

Mothers  and  children  travelled  with  him  ;  mothers 
and  children  met  each  other  at  the  station  ;  mothers  and 
children  were  in  the  shops  when  he  entered  them  to  in- 
quire for  Lime-Tree  Lodge.  Everywhere,  the  nearest 
and  dearest  of  human  relations  showed  itself  happily  in 
the  happy  light  of  day.  Everywhere,  he  was  reminded 
of  the  treasured  delusion  from  which  he  had  been  awak- 
ened so  cruelly — of  -he  lost  memory  which  had  passed 
from  him  like  a  reflection  from  a  glass. 

Inquiring  here,  inrjuiring  there,  he  could  hear  of  no 
such  place  as  Lime-Tree  Lodge.  Passing  a  house-agent's 
oflBce,  he  went  in  wearily,  and  put  the  question  for  tho 
last  time.  The  house-agent  pointed  across  the  street 
to  a  dreary  mansion  of  many  windows,  which  might 
have  been  a  manufactory,  but  which  was  an  hotel. 

That's  where  Lime-Tree  Lodge  stood,  sir,"  said  the 
man,  'Hen  years  ago." 

The  second  stage  reached,  and  No  Thoroughfare 
again  I 

But  one  chance  was  left.  The  clerical  reference,  Mr. 
Harker,  still  remained  to  be  found.  Customers  coming 
in  at  the  moment  to  occupy  the  house-ag  cent's  attention. 
Wilding  went  down  the  street,  and  entering  a  booksel- 


602 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ler's  shop,  asked  if  lie  could  be  informed  of  the  Rev- 
erend John  Barker's  present  address. 

The  bookseller  looked  unaffectedly  shocked  and  aston- 
ished, and  made  no  answer. 

Wilding  repeated  his  question. 

The  bookseller  took  up  from  his  counter  a  prim  little 
volume  in  a  binding  of  sober  gray.  He  handed  it  to  his 
visitor,  open  at  the  title-page.    Wilding  read  : 

The  martyrdom  of  the  Rev.  John  Harker  in  New 
Zealand.    Related  by  a  former  member  of  his  flock." 

Wilding  put  the  book  down  on  the  counter.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  said,  thinking  a  little,  perhaps,  of  his 
own  present  martyrdom  while  he  spoke.  The  silent 
bookseller  acknowledged  the  apology  by  a  bow.  Wild- 
ing went  out. 

Third  and  last  stage,  and  No  Thoroughfare  for  the 
third  and  last  time. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  ;  there  was  abso. 
iutely  no  choice  but  to  go  back  to  London,  defeated  at 
%11  points.  From  time  to  time  on  the  return  journey, 
ihe  wine-merchant  looked  at  his  copy  of  the  entry  in  the 
Foundling  Register.  There  is  one  among  the  many 
forms  of  despair — perhaps  the  most  pitiable  of  all— 
which  persists  in  disguising  itself  as  Hope.  Wilding 
shecked  himself  in  the  act  of  throwing  the  useless  mor- 
sel of  paper  out  of  the  carriage  window.  It  may  lead 
to  something  yet,"  he  thought.  While  I  live,  I  won't 
part  with  it.  When  I  die,  my  executors  shall  find  it 
sealed  up  with  my  wiJ!.** 

Now,  the  mention  of  his  will  set  the  good  wine-mer- 
chant on  a  new  track  of  thought,  without  diverting  his 
mind  from  its  engrossing  subject.  He  must  make  his 
will  immediately. 

The  application  of  the  phrase  No  Thoroughfare  to  the 
case  had  originated  with  Mr.  Bintrey.  In  their  first  long 
conference  following  the  discovery,  that  sagacious  per- 
sonage had  a  hundred  times  repeated,  with  an  obstruc- 
tive shake  of  the  head,  No  Thoroughfare,  Sir,  No 
Thoroughfare.  My  belief  is  that  there  is  no  way  out  of 
this  at  this  time  of  day,  and  my  advice  is  make  yourself 
comfortable  where  you  are." 

In  the  course  of  the  protracted  consultation,  a  magnum, 
of  the  forty-five  year  old  port- wine  had  been  produced 
for  the  wetting  of  Mr.  Bintrey's  legal  whistle  ;  but  the 
more  clearly  he  saw  his  way  through  the  wine,  the  more 
emphatically  he  did  not  see  his  way  through  the  case  ; 
repeating  as  often  as  he  set  his  glass  down  empty,  '*Mr. 
Wilding,  No  Thoroughfare.    Rest  and  be  thankful  " 

It  is  certain  that  the  honest  wine-merchant's  anxiety 
to  make  a  will  originated  in  profound  conscientiousness  ; 
though  it  is  possible  (and  quite  consistent  with  his  recti- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


608 


tude)  that  he  may  unconsciously  have  derived  some  feel- 
ing of  relief  from  the  prospect  of  delegating  his  own 
difficulty  to  two  other  men  who  were  to  come  after  him. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  he  pursued  his  new  track  of  thought 
with  great  ardour,  and  lost  no  time  in  begging  George 
Vendale  and  Mr.  Bintrey  to  meet  him  in  Cripple  Corner 
and  share  his  confidence. 

Being  all  three  assembled  with  closed  doors,"  said 
Mr.  Bintrey,  addressing  the  new  partner  on  the  occasion, 

I  wish  to  observe,  before  our  friend  (and  my  client) 
entrusts  us  with  his  farther  views,  that  I  have  endorsed 
what  I  understand  from  him  to  have  been  your  advice, 
Mr.  Vendale,  and  what  would  be  the  advice  of  every  sen- 
si  ble  man.  I  have  told  him  that  he  positively  must  keep 
his  secret.  I  have  spoken  with  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  both  in 
his  presence  and  in  his  absence  ;  and  if  anybody  is  to  be 
trusted  (which  is  a  very  large  IF),  I  think  she  is  to  be 
trusted  to  that  extent.  I  have  pointed  out  to  our  friend 
(and  my  client,)  that  to  set  on  foot  random  inquiries 
would  not  only  be  to  raise  the  Devil,  in  the  likeness  of 
all  the  swindlers  in  the  kingdom,  but  would  also  be  to 
waste  the  estate.  Now,  you  see,  Mr.  Vendale,  our 
friend  (and  my  client)  does  not  desire  to  waste  the  es- 
tate, but,  on  the  contrary,  desires  to  husband  it  for  what 
he  considers — but  I  can't  say  I  do — the  rightful  owner  ; 
if  such  rightful  owner  should  ever  be  found.  I  am  very 
much  mistaken  if  he  will  ever  be,  but  never  mind  that. 
Mr.  Wilding  and  I  are  at  least  agreed  that  the  estate  is 
not  to  be  wasted.  Now,  I  have  yielded  to  Mr.  Wilding's 
desire  to  keep  an  advertisement  at  intervals  flowing 
through  the  newspapers,  cautiously  inviting  any  person 
who  may  know  anything  about  that  adopted  infant,  tak- 
en from  the  Foundling  Hospital,  to  come  to  my  office  ; 
and  I  have  pledged  myself  that  such  advertisement  shall 
regularly  appear.  I  have  gathered  from  our  friend  (and 
my  client)  that  I  meet  you  here  to-day  to  take  his  in- 
structions, not  to  give  him  advice.  I  am  prepared  to  re- 
ceive his  instructions,  and  to  respect  his  wishes  ;  but 
you  will  please  observe  that  this  does  not  imply  my  ap- 
proval of  either  as  a  matter  of  professsional  opinion." 

Thus  Mr.  Bintrey  ;  talking  quite  as  much  at  Wilding 
as  to  Vendale.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  care  for  his  client , 
he  was  so  amused  by  his  client's  Quixotic  conduct,  as  to 
eye  him  from  time  to  time  with  twinkling  eyes,  in  the 
light  of  a  highly  comical  curiosity. 

"Nothing,"  observed  Wilding,  can  be  clearer.  I 
only  wish  my  head  were  as  clear  as  yours,  Mr.  Bintrey." 

'*If  you  feel  that  singing  in  it  coming  on,"  hinted  the 
lawyer,  with  an  alarmed  glance,  "put  it  off. — I  mean 
the  interview." 

"Not  at  all,  I  thank  you,"  said  Wilding.  "What 
was  I  going  to — " 


604  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


*'  Don't  excite  yourself , Mr.  Wilding,"  urged  the  lawyer. 

"No;  I  wasn't  going  to,"  said  the  wine-merchant. 
"  Mr.  Bintrey  and  George  Vendale,  would  you  have  any 
hesitation  or  objection  to  become  my  joint  trustees  and 
executors,  or  can  you  at  once  consent 

''/consent,"  replied  George  Vendale,  readily. 

^'  /consent,"  said  Bintrey,  not  so  readily. 

*•  Thank  you  both.  Mr.  Bintrey,  my  instructions  for 
my  last  will  and  testament  are  short  and' plain.  Perhaps 
you  will  now  have  the  goodness  to  take  them  down.  I 
leave  the  whole  of  my  real  and  personal  estate,  without 
any  exception  or  reservation  whatsoever,  to  you  two,  my 
joint  trustees  and  executors,  in  trust  to  pay  over  the 
whole  to  the  true  Walter  Wilding  if  he  shall  be  found 
and  identified  within  two  years  after  the  day  of  my 
death.  Failing  that,  in  trust  to  you  two  to  pay  over  the 
whole  as  a  benefaction  and  legacy  to  the  Foundling  Hos- 
pital." 

*'  Those  are  all  your  instructions,  are  they,  Mr. 
Wilding  !  "  demanded  Bintrey,  after  a  blank  silence, 
during  which  nobody  had  looked  at  anybody. 

''The  whole." 

"  And  as  to  those  instructions,  you  have  absolutely 
made  up  your  mind,  Mr.  Wilding  ?  " 
"Absolutely,  decidedly,  finally." 

"  It  only  remains,"  said  the  lawyer,  with  one  shrug 
of  his  shoulders,  "  to  get  them  into  technical  and  binding 
form,  and  to  execute  and  attest.  Now,  does  that  press  ? 
Is  there  any  hurry  about  it  ?  You  are  not  going  to  die 
yet,  sir." 

"Mr.  Bintrey,"  answered  Wilding,  gravely,  "  when  I 
am  going  to  die  is  within  other  knowledge  than  yours  or 
mine.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  this  matter  off  my  mind, 
if  you  please." 

"  We  are  lawyer  and  client  again,"  rejoined  Bintrey, 
who,  for  the  nonce,  had  become  almost  sympathetic. 
"  If  this  day  week — here,  at  the  same  hour — will  suit 
Mr.  Vendale  and  yourself,  I  will  enter  in  my  Diary  that 
I  attend  you  accordingly." 

The  appointment  was  made,  and  in  due  sequence  kept. 
The  will  was  formally  signed,  sealed,  delivered,  and 
witnessed,  and  was  carried  off  hy  Mr.  Bintrey  for  safe 
storage  among  the  papers  of  his  clients,  ranged  in  their 
respective  iron  boxes,  with  their  respective  owners' 
names  outside,  on  iron  tiers  in  his  consulting-room,  as  if 
that  legal  sanctuary  were  a  condensed  Family  Vault  of 
Clients. 

With  more  heart  than  he  had  lately  had  for  former 
subjects  of  interest.  Wilding  then  set  about  completing 
his  patriarchal  establishment,  being  much  assisted  not 
only  by  Mrs.  Goldstraw  but  by  Vendale  too  :  who,  per- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


605 


taps,  had  in  his  mind  the  giving  of  an  Obenreizer  dinner 
as  soon  as  possible.  Anyhow,  the  establishment  being 
reported  in  sound  working  order,  the  Obenreizers,  Guar- 
dian and  Ward,  were  asked  to  dinner,  and  Madame  Dor 
was  included  in  the  invitation.  If  Vendale  had  been 
over  head  and  ears  before — a  phrase  not  to  be  taken  as 
implying  the  faintest  doubt  about  it — this  dinner  plunged 
him  down  in  love  ten  thousand  fathoms  deep.  Yet,  for 
the  life  of  him,  he  conld  not  get  one  word  alone  with 
charming  Marguerite.  So  surely  as  a  blessed  moment 
seemed  to  come,  Obenreizer,  in  his  filmy  state,  would 
stand  at  Vendale's  elbow,  or  the  broard  back  of  Madame 
Dor  would  appear  before  his  eyes.  That  speechless 
matron  was  never  seen  in  a  front  view,  from  the  moment 
of  her  arrival  to  that  of  her  departure — except  at  dinner. 
And  from  the  instant  of  her  retirement  to  the  drawing- 
room,  after  a  hearty  participation  in  that  meal,  she 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall  again. 

Yet,  through  four  o^  iive  delightful  though  distracting 
hours.  Marguerite  was  ^.o  be  seen,  Marguerite  was  to  be 
heard.  Marguerite  was  to  be  occasionally  touched.  When 
they  made  the  round  of  the  old  dark  cellars,  Vendale 
led  her  by  the  hand  ;  when  she  sang  to  him  in  the  lighted 
room  at  night,  Vendale,  standing  by  her,  held  her  relin. 
quished  gloves,  and  would  have  bartered  against  them 
every  drop  of  the  forty-five  year  old,  though  it  had  been 
forty-five  times  forty-five  years  old,  and  its  net  price 
forty-five  times  forty-five  pounds  per  dozen.  And  still 
when  she  was  gone,  and  a  great  gap  of  an  extinguisher 
was  clapped  on  Cripple  Corner,  he  tormented  himself 
by  wondering,  Did  she  think  that  he  admired  her  !  Did 
she  think  that  he  adored  her  !  Did  she  suspect  that  she 
had  won  him,  heart  and  soul  !  Did  she  care  to  think  at 
all  about !  And  so  Did  she  and  Didn't  she,  up  and  down 
the  gamut,  and  above  the  line  and  below  the  line,  dear, 
dear  I  Poor  restless  heart  of  humanity  !  To  think  that 
the  men  who  were  mummies  thousands  of  years  ago,  did 
the  same,  and  ever  found  the  secret  how  to  be  quiet 
after  it  1 

"  What  do  you  think,  George,"  Wildly  asked  him  next 
day,  of  Mr.  Obenreizer  ?  (I  won't  ask  you  what  you 
chink  of  Miss  Obenreizer,)  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Vendale,  and  I  never  did  know, 
what  to  think  of  him." 

He  is  well  informed  and  clever,"  said  Wilding. 
Certainly  clever." 

"  A  good  musician."  (He  had  played  very  well,  and 
j?ung  very  well,  overnight.) 

"  Unquestionably  a  good  musician." 

"And  talks  well." 

'*  Yes,"  said  George  Vendale,  ruminating,  "  and  talks 


606  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


well.  Do  you  know,  Wilding,  it  oddly  occurs  to  me,  as 
I  think  about  him,  that  he  doesn't  keep  silence  well  ! " 

"How  do  you  mean?  He  is  not  obtrusively  talka- 
tive/' 

* '  No,  and  I  don't  mean  that.  Put  when  he  is  silent,  you 
can  hardly  help  vaguely,  though  perhaps  not  unjustly, 
mistrusting  him.  Take  people  whom  you  know  and 
like.    Take  any  one  you  know  and  like." 

Soon  done,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Wilding.  **  I  take 
you." 

I  didn't  bargain  for  that,  or  foresee  it,"  returned 
Vendale,  laughing.  "  However,  take  me.  Reflect  for 
a  moment.  Is  your  approving  knowledge  of  my  inter- 
esting face  mainly  founded  (however  various  the  mo- 
mentary expression  it  may  include)  on  my  face  when  I 
am  silent  ?  " 

I  think  it  is,"  said  Wilding. 

*'I  think  so  too.  Now,  you  see,  when  Obenreizer 
speaks — in  other  words,  when  he  is  allowed  to  explain 
himself  away — he  comes  out  right  enough  ;  but  when  he 
has  not  the  opportunity  of  explaining  himself  away,  he 
comes  out  rather  wrong.  Therefore  it  is,  that  I  say  he 
does  not  keep  silence  well.  And  passing  hastily  in  re- 
view such  faces  as  I  know,  and  don't  trust,  I  am  inclined 
to  think,  now  I  give  my  word  to  it,  that  none  of  them 
keep  the  silence  well." 

This  proposition  in  Physiognomy  being  new  to  Wild- 
ing, he  was  at  first  slow  to  admit  it,  until  asking  himself 
the  question  whether  Mrs.  Goldstraw  kept  silence  well, 
and  remembering  that  her  face  in  repose  decidedly  in- 
vited truthfulness,  he  was  as  glad  as  men  usually  are  to 
believe  what  they  desire  to  believe. 

But,  as  he  was  very  slow  to  regain  his  spirit  or  his 
health  his  partner,  as  another  means  of  setting  him  up — 
and  perhaps  also  with  contingent  Obenreizer  views — re- 
minded him  of  those  musical  schemes  of  his  in  connec- 
tion with  his  family,  and  how  a  singing-class  was  to  be 
formed  in  the  house,  and  a  Choir  in  a  neighbouring 
class.  The  class  was  established  speedily,  and,  two  or 
three  of  the  people  having  already  some  musical  knowl- 
edge, and  singing  tolerably,  the  Choir  soon  followed. 
The  latter  was  led,  and  chiefly  taught,  by  Wilding  him- 
self ;  who  had  hopes  of  converting  his  dependents  into 
so  many  Foundlings,  in  respect  of  their  capacity  to  sing 
sacred  choruses. 

Now,  the  Obenreizers  being  skilled  musicians  it  was 
easily  brought  to  pass  that  they  should  be  asked  to  join 
these  musical  unions.  Guardian  and  Ward  consenting, 
or  Guardian  consenting  for  both,  it  was  necessarily 
brought  to  pass  that  Vendale's  life  became  a  life  of  ab- 
*^jolute  thraldom  and  enchant»ment.    For,  in  the  mouldy 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


607 


Christoplier-Wren  charch  on  Sundays,  with  its  dearly 
beloved  brethren  assembled  and  met  together,  five-and- 
twenty  strong,  was  not  that  Her  voice  that  shot  like  light 
into  the  darkest  places,  thrilling  the  walls  and  pillars  as 
though  they  were  pieces  of  his  heart  I  What  time,  too, 
Madame  Dor  in  a  corner  of  the  high  pew,  turning  her 
back  upon  everybody  and  everything,  could  not  fail  to 
be  Ritualistically  right  at  some  moment  of  the  service  ; 
like  the  man  whom  the  doctors  recommended  to  get 
drunk  once  a  month,  and  who,  that  he  might  not  over- 
look it,  got  drunk  every  day. 

But,  even  those  seraphic  Sundays  were  surpassed  by 
the  Wednesday  concerts  established  for  the  patriarchal 
family.  At  those  concerts  she  would  sit  down  to  the 
piano  and  sing  them,  in  her  own  tongue,  songs  of  her 
own  land,  songs  calling  from  the  mountain-tops  to  Yen- 
dale,  Rise  above  the  grovelling  level  country  :  come 
far  from  the  crowd  ;  pursue  me  as  I  mount  higher,  high- 
er,  higher,  meltinfi:  into  the  azure  distance  •  rise  to  mj 
supremest  height  of  all,  and  love  me  here  I"  Thei? 
would  the  pretty  bodice,  the  clocked  stocking,  and  the 
silver-buckled  shoe  be,  like  the  broad  forehead  and  bright 
eyes,  fraught  with  the  spring  of  a  very  chamois,  until  the 
strain  was  over. 

Not  even  over  Vendale  himself  did  these  songs  of  hers 
cast  a  more  potent  spell  than  over  Joey  Ladle  in  his  dif- 
ferent way.  Steadily  refusing  to  muddle  the  harmony 
by  taking  any  share  in  it,  and  evincing  the  supremest  for 
scales  and  such -like  rudiments  of  music — which,  indeed, 
seldom  captivate  mere  listeners — Joey  did  at  first  give 
up  the  whole  business  for  a  bad  job,  and  the  whole  of 
the  performers  for  a  set  of  howling  Dervishes.  But, 
descrying  traces  of  unmuddled  harmony  in  a  part  song 
one  day,  he  gave  his  two  under-cellarmen  faint  hopes  of 
getting  on  towards  something  in  course  of  time.  An  an- 
them of  Handel's  led  to  further  encouragement  from 
him  :  though  he  objected  that  that  great  musician  must 
have  been  down  in  some  of  them  foreign  cellars  pretty 
much,  for  to  go  and  say  the  same  thing  so  many  times 
over  ;  which,  take  it  in  how  you  might,  he  considered  a 
certain  sign  of  your  having  took  it  in  somehow.  On  a 
third  occasion,  the  public  appearance  of  Mr.  Jarvis  with 
a  flute,  and  of  an  old  man  with  a  violin,  and  the  perfor- 
mance of  a  duet  by  the  two,  did  so  astonish  him  that  he 
became  inspired  with  the  words,  *'  Ann  Koar  !"  repeat- 
edly pronouncing  them  as  if  calling  in  a  familiar  man- 
ner for  some  lady  who  had  distinguished  herself  in  the 
orchestra.  But  this  was  his  final  testimony  to  the 
merits  of  his  mates,  for,  the  instrumental  duet  being 
performed  at  the  first  Wednesday  concert,  and  being 
presently  followed  by  the  voice  of  Marguerite  Obenreizer, 


(508  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


he  sat  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  entranced,  until  she 
had  finished  ;  when,  rising  in  his  place  with  much  sol- 
emnity, and  prefacing  what  he  was  about  to  say  with  a 
bow  that  specially  included  Mr.  Wilding  in  it,  he  de- 
livered himself  of  the  gratifying  sentiment;  *'Arter 
that,  ye  may  all  on  ye  get  to  bed  I "  And  ever  after- 
wards declined  to  render  homage  in  any  other  words  to 
the  musical  powers  of  the  family. 

Thus  began  a  separate  personal  acquaintance  between 
Marguerite  Obenreizer  and  Joey  Ladle.  She  laughed  so 
heartily  at  his  compliment,  and  yet  was  so  abashed  by 
it,  that  Joey  made  bold  to  say  to  her,  after  the  concert 
was  over,  he  hoped  he  wasn't  so  muddled  in  his  head  as 
to  have  took  a  liberty  ?  She  made  him  a  gracious  reply, 
and  Joey  ducked  in  return. 

You'll  change  the  luck  time  about,  Miss,"  said  Joey, 
ducking  again.  It's  such  as  you  in  the  place  that  can 
bring  round  the  luck  of  the  place." 

*'CanI?  Round  the  luck?"  she  answered,  in  her 
pretty  English,  and  with  a  pretty  wonder.  I  fear  I  do 
not  understand.    I  am  so  stupid." 

Young  Master  Wilding,  Miss,"  Joey  explained  con- 
fidentially, though  not  much  to  her  enlightenment, 

changed  the  luck  afore  he  took  in  young  Master  George. 
So  I  say,  and  so  they'll  find.  Lord  !  Only  come  into  the 
place  and  sing  over  the  luck  a  few  times,  Miss,  and  it 
won't  be  able  to  help  itself  ! " 

With  this,  and  with  a  whole  brood  of  ducks,  Joey 
backed  out  of  the  presence.  But  Joey  being  a  privileg- 
ed person,  and  even  an  involuntary  conquest  being  plea- 
sant to  youth  and  beauty.  Marguerite  merrily  looked  out 
for  him  next  time. 

*'  Where  is  my  Mr.  Joey,  please  ?"  she  asked  of  Ven- 
dale. 

So  Joey  was  produced  and  shaken  hands  with,  and 
that  became  an  Institution. 

Another  Institution  arose  in  this  wise.  Joey  was  a 
little  hard  of  hearing.  He  himself  said  it  was  Wap- 
ours,"  and  perhaps  it  might  have  been  ;  but  whatever 
the  cause  of  the  effect,  there  the  effect  was  upon  him. 
On  this  first  occasion  he  had  been  seen  to  sidle  along  the 
wall,  with  his  left  hand  to  his  left  ear,  until  he  had 
sidled  himself  into  a  seat  pretty  near  the  singer,  in  which 
place  and  position  he  had  remained,  until  addressing  to 
his  friends  the  amateurs  the  compliment  before  men- 
tioned. It  was  observed  on  the  following  Wednesday 
that  Joey's  action  as  a  Pecking  Machine  was  impaired  at 
dinner,  and  it  was  rumoured  about  the  table  that  this 
was  explainable  by  his  high-strung  expectations  of  Miss 
Obenreizer's  singing,  aud  bis  fears  of  not  getting  a  place 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


609 


where  he  could  hear  every  note  and  syllable.  The  rum- 
our reaching  Wilding's  ears,  he  in  his  good-nature  call- 
ed Joey  to  the  front  at  night  before  Marguerite  began. 
Thus  the  Institution  came  into  being  that  on  succeeding 
nights,  Marguerite,  running  her  hands  over  the  keys,  be  - 
fore singing,  always  said  to  Vendale,  Where  is  my  Mr. 
Joey,  please?"  and  that  Vendale  always  brought  him 
forth,  and  stationed  him  near  him  near  by.  That  he 
should  then,  v^^hen  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  express  in 
his  face  the  utmost  contempt  for  the  exertions  of  his 
friends  and  confidence  in  Marguerite  alone,  whom  he 
would  stand  contemplating,  not  unlike  the  rhinoceros 
out  of  the  spelling-book,  tamed  and  on  his  hind  legs, 
was  a  part  of  the  Institution.  Also  that  when  he  re- 
mained after  the  singing  in  his  most  ecstatic  state,  some 
bold  spirit  from  the  back  should  say,  ''What  do  you 
think  of  it,  Joey?"  and  he  should  be  goaded  to  reply,  as 
having  that  instant  conceived  the  retort,  ''  Arter  that  ye 
may  all  on  ye  get  to  bed  !"  These  were  other  parts  of 
the  Institution. 

But  the  simple  pleasures  and  small  jests  of  Cripple 
Corner  were  not  destined  to  have  long  life.  Underlying 
them  from  the  first  was  a  serious  matter,  which  every 
member  of  the  patriarchal  family  knew  of,  but  which 
by  tacit  agreement,  all  forbore  to  speak  of.  Mr.  Wild- 
ing's health  was  in  a  bad  way. 

He  might  have  overcome  the  shock  he  had  sustained 
in  the  one  great  affection  of  his  life,  or  he  might  have 
overcome  his  consciousness  of  being  in  the  enjoyment 
of  another  man's  property  ;  but  the  two  together  were 
too  much  for  him.  A  man  haunted  by  twin  ghosts,  he 
became  deeply  depressed.  The  inseparable  spectres  sat 
at  the  board  with  him,  ate  from  his  platter,  drank  from 
his  cup,  and  stood  by  his  bedside  at  night.  When  he 
recalled  his  supposed  mother's  love,  he  felt  as  though 
he  had  stolen  it.  When  he  rallied  a  little  under  respect 
and  attachment  of  his  dependents,  he  felt  as  though  he 
were  even  fraudulent  in  making  them  happy,  for  that 
should  have  been  the  unknown  man's  duty  and  gratifi- 
cation. 

Gradually  under  the  pressure  of  his  brooding  mind, 
his  body  stooped,  his  step  lost  its  elasticity,  his  eyes 
were  seldom  lifted  from  the  ground.  He  knew  he  could 
not  help  the  deplorable  mistake  that  had  been  made, 
but  he  knew  he  could  not  mend  it  ;  for  the  days  and 
weeks  went  by,  and  no  one  claimed  his  name  or  his  pos- 
sessions. And  now  there  began  to  creep  over  him  a 
cloudy  consciousness  of  often-recurring  confusion  in  his 
head.  He  would  unaccountably  lose,  sometimes  whole 
hours,  sometimes  a  whole  day  and  night.  Once,  his  re- 
membrance stopped  as  he  sat  at  the  head  of  the  dinner. 

XT  IS 


610 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


table,  and  was  blank  until  daybreak.  Another  time,  it 
stopped  as  lie  was  beating  time  to  their  singing,  and 
went  on  again  when  he  and  his  partner  were  walking  in 
the  courtyard  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  half  the  night 
later.  He  asked  Vendale  (always  full  of  consideration, 
work,  and  help)  how  this  was  ?   Vendale  only  replied, 

You  have  not  been  quite  well  ;  that's  all.'*  He  looked 
for  explanation  into  the  faces  of  people.  But  they  would 
put  it  off  with,  Glad  to  see  you  looking  so  much  bet- 
ter, sir  or  "Hope  you're  doing  nicely  now,  sir;"  in 
which  was  no  information  at  all. 

At  length,  when  the  partnership  was  but  five  months 
old,  Walter  Wilding  took  to  his  bed,  and  his  house- 
keeper became  his  nurse.  , 

Lying  here,  perhaps  you  will  not  mind  me  calling  you 
Sally,  Mrs.  Goldstraw  ?  "  said  the  poor  wine-merchant. 

"  It  sounds  more  natural  to  me,  sir,  than  any  other 
name,  and  I  like  it  better." 

Thank  you,  Sally.  I  think,  Sally,  I  must  of  late 
have  been  subject  to  fits.  Is  that  so,  Sally  ?  Don't  mind 
telling  me  now." 

It  has  happened,  sir." 

"  Ah  I  That  is  the  explanation  I  "  he  quietly  remark- 
ed. '*Mr.  Obenreizer,  Sally,  talks  of  the  world  being 
so  small  that  it  is  not  strange  how  often  the  same  peo- 
ple come  together,  and  come  together  at  various  places, 
and  in  various  stages  of  life.  But  it  does  seem  strange, 
Sally,  that  I  should,  as  I  may  say,  come  round  to  the 
Foundling  to  die." 

He  extended  his  hand  to  her,  and  she  gently  took  it. 
'    "You  are  not  going  to  die,  dear  Mr.  Wilding." 

"  So  Mr.  Bintrey  said,  but  I  think  he  was  wrong.  The 
old  child-feeling  is  coming  back  upon  me,  Sally.  The 
old  hush  and  rest,  as  I  used  to  fall  asleep." 

After  an  interval  he  said,  in  a  placid  voice,  "  Please 
kiss  me,  Nurse,"  and,  it  was  evident,  believed  himself 
to  be  lying  in  the  old  Dormitory. 

As  she  had  been  used  to  bend  over  the  fatherless  and 
motherless  children,  Sally  bent  over  the  fatherless  and 
motherless  man,  and  put  her  lips  to  his  forehead,  mur- 
muring : 

"  God  bless  you  !  " 

"  God  bless  you  !  "  he  replied,  in  the  same  tone. 

After  another  interval,  he  opened  his  eyes  in  his  own 
character,  and  said  :  "  Don't  move  me,  Sally,  because  of 
what  I  am  going  to  say  ;  I  lie  quite  easily.  I  think  my 
time  is  come.  I  don't  know  how  it  may  appear  to  you, 
Sally,  but—" 

Insensibility  fell  upon  him  for  a  few  minutes  ;  he 
emerged  from  it  once  more. 

" — I  don't  know  how  it  may  appear  to  you,  Sally,  but 
BO  it  appears  to'me. " 


MISOELLAN  PIOUS. 


611 


When  he  had  thus  conscientiously  finished  his  favour- 
ite sentence,  his  time  came,  and  he  died. 


ACT  II. 

Vendale  rnaJce^  Love. 

The  summer  and  the  autumn  had  passed.  Christmas 
and  the  New  Year  were  at  hand. 

As  executors  honestly  bent  on  performing  their  duty 
towards  the  dead,  Vendale  and  Bintrey  had  held  more 
than  one  anxious  consultation  on  the  subject  of  Wilding's 
will.  The  lawyer  had  declared,  from  tHe  first,  that  it  was 
simply  impossible  to  take  any  useful  action  in  the  mat- 
ter at  all.  The  only  obvious  inquiries  to  make,  in  rela- 
tion to  the  lost  man,  had  been  made  already  by  Wilding 
himself  :  with  this  result  that  time  and  death  together 
had  not  left  a  trace  of  him  discoverable.  To  advertise 
for  the  claimant  to  the  property,  it  would  be  necessary 
to  mention  particulars — a  course  of  proceeding  which 
would  invite  half  the  impositors  in  England  to  present 
themselves  in  the  character  of  the  true  Walter  Wilding. 
''If  we  find  a  chance  of  tracing  the  lost  man,  we  will 
take  it.  If  we  don't,  let  us  meet  for  another  consulta- 
tion on  the  first  anniversary  of  Wilding's  death."  So 
Bintrey  advised.  And  so,  with  the  most  earnest  desire 
to  fulfil  his  dead  friend's  wishes,  Vendale  was  fain  to 
let  the  matter  rest  for  the  present. 

Turning  from  his  interest  in  the  pass  to  his  interest  in 
the  future,  Vendale  still  found  himself  confronting  a 
doubtful  prospect.  Months  on  months  had  passed  since 
his  first  visit  to  Soho-square — and  through  all  that  time, 
the  one  language  in  which  he  had  told  Marguerite  that 
he  loved  her  was  the  language  of  the  eyes,  assisted, 
at  convenient  opportunities,  by  the  language  of  the 
hand. 

What  was  the  obstacle  in  his  way  ?  The  one  immov- 
able obstacle  which  had  been  in  his  way  from  the  first. 
No  matter  how  fairly  the  opportunities  looked,  Vendale's 
efforts  to  speak  with  Marguerite  alone,  ended  invariably 
in  one  and  the  same  result.  Under  the  most  accidental 
circumstances,  in  the  most  innocent  manner  possible, 
Obenreizer  was  always  in  the  way. 

With  the  last  days*  of  the  old  year  came  an  unexpected 
chance  of  spending  an  evening  with  Marguerite,  whicli 
Vendale  resolved  should  be  a  chance  of  speaking  pri- 
vately to  her  as  well.  A  cordial  note  from  Obenreizer 
invited  him,  on  New  Year's  Day,  to  a  little  family  din- 
ner in  Soho-square.    "  We  shall  be  only  four,"  the  note 


613  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


said.  We  shall  be  only  two/'  Vendale  determined, 
"  before  the  evening  is  out ! 

New  Year's  Day  among  the  English,  is  associated  with 
the  giving  and  receiving  of  dinners,  and  with  nothing 
more.  New  Year's  Day,  among  the  foreigners,  is  the 
grand  opportunity  of  the  year  for  the  giving  and  receiv- 
ing of  presents.  It  is  occasionally  possible  to  acclimatise 
a  foreign  custom.  In  this  instance  Vendale  felt  no  hesi- 
tation about  making  the  attempt.  His  one  difficulty 
was  to  decide  what  his  New  Year's  ^ift  to  Marguerite 
should  be.  The  defensive  pride  of  the  peasant's  daugh- 
ter—morbidly sensitive  to  the  inequality  between  her 
social  position  and  his — would  be  secretly  roused  against 
him  if  he  ventured  on  a  ric^h  offering.  A  gift,  which  a 
poor  man's  purse^  might  purchase,  was  the  one  gift  that 
could  be  trusted  to  find  its  way  to  her  heart,  for  the 
giver's  sake.  Stoutly  resisting  temptation,  in  the  form 
of  diamonds  and  rubies,  Vendale  bought  a  brooch  of  the 
filagree  work  of  Genoa — the  simplest  and  most  unpre- 
tending ornament  that  he  could  find  in  the  jeweller's 
shop. 

He  slipped  his  gift  into  Marguerite's  hand  as  she  held 
'li  out  to  welcome  him  on  the  day  of  the  dinner. 

This  is  your  first  New  Year's  Day  in  England,"  he 
said.  Will  you  let  me  help  to  make  it  like  a  New 
Year's  Day  at  home  ?  " 

She  thanked  him,  a  little  constrainedly,  as  she  looked 
at  the  jeweller's  box,  uncertain  what  it  might  contain. 
Opening  the  box,  and  discovering  the  studiously  simple 
form  under  which  Vendale's  little  keepsake  offered  itself 
to  her,  she  penetrated  his  motive  on  the  spot.  Her  face 
turned  on  him  brightly,  with  a  look  5^hich  said,  T  own 
you  have  pleased  and  flattered  me."  Never  had  she 
been  so  charming,  in  Vendale's  eyes,  as  she  was  at  that 
moment.  Her  winter  dress — a  petticoat  of  dark  silk, 
with  a  bodice  of  black  velvet  rising  to  her  neck,  and  en- 
closing it  softly  in  a  little  circle  of  swansdown — height- 
ened, by  all  the  force,  of  contrast,  the  dazzling  fairness 
of  her  hair  and  her  complexion.  It  was  only  when  she 
turned  aside  from  him  to  the  glass,  and  takmg  out  the 
brooch  that  she  wore,  put. his  New  Year's  gift  in  its 
place,  that  Vendale's  attention  wandered  far  enough 
away  from  her  to  discover  the  presence  of  other  persons 
in  the  room.  He  now  became  conscious  that  the  hands 
of  Obenreizer  were  affectionately  in  possession  of  his 
elbows.  He  now  heard  the  voice  of  Obenreizer  thanking 
him  for  his  attention  to  Marguerite,  with  the  faintest  pos- 
sible ri-ng  of  mockery  in  its  tone.  ("  Such  a  simple  pres- 
ent, dear  sir  I  and  showing  such  nice  tact ! "  He  now  dis- 
covered, for  the  first  time  that  there  was  one  other  guest, 
and  but  one,  besides  himself,  whom  Obenreizer  presented 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


613 


as  a  compatriot  and  friend.  The  friend's  face  was  moul- 
dy, and  the  friend's  figure  was  fat.  His  age  was  sugges- 
tive of  the  autumnal  period  of  life.  In  the  course  of 
the  evening  he  developed  two  extraordinary  capacities. 
One  was  a  capacity  for  silence  ;  the  other  was  a  capacity 
for  emptying  bottles. 

Madame  Dor  was  not  in  the  room.  Neither  was  there 
any  visible  place  reserved  for  her  when  they  sat  down 
to  table.  Obenreizer  explained  that  it  was ''the  good 
Dor's  simple  habit  to  dine  always  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  She  would  make  her  excuses  later  in  the  evening." 
Vendale  wondered  whether  the  good  Dor  had,  on  this 
occasion,  varied  her  domestic  employment  from  cleaning 
Obenreizer's  gloves  to  cooking  Obenreizer's  dinner.  This 
at  least  was  certain — the  dishes  served  were,  one  and 
all,  as  achievements  in  cookery,  high  above  the  reach  of 
the  rude  elementary  art  of  England.  The  dinner  was 
unobtrusively  perfect.  As  for  the  wine,  the  eyes  of  the 
speechless  friend  rolled  over  it  as  in  solemn  ecstacy. 
Sometimes  he  said,  '*  Good  I  "  when  a  •bottle  came  in 
full ;  and  sometimes  he  said,  Ah  ! when  a  bottle  went 
out  empty — and  there  is  contributions  to  the  gayety  of 
the  evening  ended. 

Silence  is  occasionally  infectious.  Oppressed  by  pri- 
vate anxieties  of  their  own,  Marguerite  and  Vendale  ap- 
peared to  feel  the  influence  of  the  speechless  friend. 
The  whole  responsibility  of  keeping  the  talk  going  rest- 
ed on  Obenreizer's  shoulders,  and  manfully  did  Oben- 
reizer sustain  it.  He  opened  his  heart  in  the  character 
of  an  enlightened  foreigner,  and  sang  the  praises  of  Eng- 
land, When  other  topics  ran  dry,  he  returned  to  this 
inexhaustible  source,  and  always  set  the  stream  running 
again  as  copiously  as  ever.  Obenreizer  would  have  given 
an  arm,  an  eye,  or  a  leg  to  have  been  born  an  English- 
man. Out  of  England  there  was  no  such  institution  as  a 
home,  no  such  thing  as  a  fireside,  no  such  object  as  a 
beautiful  woman.  His  dear  Miss  Marguerite  would  ex- 
cuse him,  if  he  accounted  for  her  attractions  on  the 
theory  that  English  blood  must  have  mixed  at  some  for- 
mer time  with  their  obscure  and  unknown  ancestry. 
Survey  this  English  nation,  and  behold  a  tall,  clean, 
plump,  and  solid  people  !  Look  at  their  cities  1  What 
magnificence  in  their  public  buildings  !  What  amiable 
order  and  prosperity  in  their  streets  !  Admire  their  laws, 
combining  the  eternal  principle  of  justice  with  the  other 
eternal  principle  of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  ;  and 
applying  the  product  to  all  civil  injuries,  from  an  injury 
to  a  man's  honour,  to  an  injury  to  a  man's  nose  ?  You 
have  ruined  my  daughter — pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  I 
You  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  blow  in  my  face — 
pounds,  shillings  and  pence  !    Where  was  the  material 


614  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


prosperity  of  sucli  a  country  as  that  to  stop  i  Obeureizer, 
projecting  himself  into  the  future,  failed  to  see  the  end 
of  it.  Obenreizer's  enthusiasm  entreated  permission  to 
exhale  itself,  English  fashion,  in  a  toast.  Here  is  our 
modest  little  dinner  over,  here  is  our  frugal  dessert  on 
the  table,  and  here  is  the  admirer  of  England  conforming 
to  national  customs,  and  making  a  speech  !  A  toast  to 
your  white  cliffs  of  Albion,  Mr.  Vendale  I  tx)  your  nation- 
al virtues,  your  charming  climate,  aiid  your  fascinating 
women  I  to  your  Hearths,  to  your  Homes,  to  your  Hab- 
eas Corpus,  and  to  all  your  other  institutions  !  In  one 
word — to  England  !    Heep-heep-heep  I  hooray  I 

Obenreizer's  voice  had  barely  chanted  the  last  note  of 
the  English  cheer,  the  speechless  friend  had  barely 
drained  the  last  drop  out  of  his  glass,  when  the  festive 
proceedings  were  interrupted  by  a  modest  tap  at  the 
door.  A  woman-servant  came  in  and  approaciied  her 
master  with  a  little  note  in  her  hand.  Obenreizer  open- 
ed the  note  with  a  frown,  and,  after  reading  it  with  an 
expression  of  genuine  annoyance,  passed  it  on  to  his 
compatriot  and^friend.  Vendale's  spirits  rose  as  he 
watched  these  proceedings.  Had  he  found  an  ally  in  the 
annoying  little  note  ?  Was  the  long-looke(l  for  chance 
actually  coming  at  last  ? 

I  am  afraid  there  is  no  help  for  it  1 "  said  Obenreizer. 
addressing  his  fellow-countrymen.  ''I  am  afraid  w© 
must  go." 

The  speechless  friend  handed  back  the  letr^er,  shrug- 
ged his  heavy  shoulders,  and  poured  himselt  out  a  last 
glass  of  wine.  His  fat  fingers  lingered  fondly  around 
the  neck  of  the  bottle.  They  pressed  it  with  a  little 
amatory  squeeze  at  parting.  His  globular  eyes  looked 
dimly,  as  through  an  intervening  haze,  at  Vendale  and 
Marguerite.  His  heavy  articulation  labored,  and  brought 
forth  a  whole  sentence  at  a  birth.       I  think,''  he  said, 

I  should  have  liked  a  little  more  wine.''  His  breath 
failed  him  after  that  effort  ;  he  gasped,  and  walked  to 
the  door. 

Obenreizer  addressed  himself  to  Vendale  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  the  deepest  distress. 

I  am  so  shocked,  so  confused,  so  distressed,"  he  be 
gan.  A  misfortune  has  happened  to  one  of  my  com- 
patriots. He  is  alone,  he  is  ignorant  of  your  language— 
I  and  my  good  friend  here,  have  no  choice  but  to  go  and 
help  him.  What  can  I  say  in  my  excuse  ?  How  can  I 
describe  my  affliction  at  depriving  myself  in  this  way  of 
the  honour  of  your  company  ?  " 

He  paused,  evidently  expecting  Vendale  to  take  up 
his  hat  and  retire.  Discerning  his  opportunity  at  last, 
Vendale  determined  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  He 
met  Obenreizer  dexterously,  with  Obenreizer's  own  weap- 
ons. 


]viiscp:llane()us. 


615 


"Pray  don't  distress  yourself,"  he  said,"  'Til  wait 
here  with  the  greatest  of  pleasure  till  you  come  back." 

Marguerite  blushed  deeply,  and  turned  away  to  her 
embroidery  frame  in  a  corner  by  the  window.  The  film 
showed  itself  in  Obenreizer's  eyes,  and  the  smile  came 
something  sourly  to  Obenreizer's  lips.  To  have  told 
Vendale  that  there  was  no  reasonable  prospect  of  his 
coming  back  in  good  time,  would  have  been  to  risk  of- 
fending a  man  whose  favourable  opinion  was  of  solid 
commercial  importance  to  him.  Accepting  his  defeat 
with  the  best  possible  grace,  he  declared  himself  to  be 
equally  honoured  and  delighted  by  Vendale's  proposal. 
*  So  frank,  so  friendly,  so  English  !  "  He  bustled  about, 
apparently  looking  for  something  he  wanted,  disappear- 
ed for  a  moment  through  the  folding-doors  communicat- 
ing with  the  next  room,  came  back  with  his  hat  and 
coat,  and  protesting  that  he  would  return  at  the  ear- 
liest possible  moment,  embraced  Vendale's  elbows,  and 
vanished  from  the  scene  in  company  with  the  speechless 
friend. 

Vendale  turned  to  the  corner  by  the  window,  in  which 
Marguerite  had  placed  herself  with  her  work.  There,  as 
if  she  had  dropped  from  the  ceiling,  or  come  up  through 
the  floor — there,  in  the  old  attitude,  with  her  face  to  the 
stove — sat  an  Obstacle  that  had  not  been  foreseen,  in  the 
person  of  Madame  Dor  !  She  half  got  up,  half  looked 
over  her  broad  shoulder  at  Vendale,  and  plumped  down 
again.  Was  she  at  work  ?  Yes.  Cleaning  Obenreizer's 
gloves,  as  before  ?  No  ;  darning  Obenreizer's  stock- 
ings. 

The  case  was  now  desperate.  Two  serious  considera- 
tions presented  themselves  to  Vendale.  Was  it  possible 
to  put  Madame  Dor  into  the  stove?  The  stove  wouldn't 
hold  her.  Was  it  possible  to  treat  Madame  Dor,  not  as 
a  living  woman,  but  as  an  article  of  furniture  V  Could 
the  mind  be  brought  to  contemplate  this  respectable 
matron  purely  in  the  light  of  a  chest  of  drawers,  with 
a  black  gauze  head-dress  accidently  left  on  the  top  of 
it  ?  Yes,  the  mind  could  be  brought  to  do  that.  With 
a  comparatively  trifling  effort,  Vendale's  mind  did  it.  As 
he  took  his  place  on  the  old-fashioned  window-seat,  close 
by  Marguerite  and  her  embroidery,  a  slight  movement 
appeared  in  the  chest  of  drawers,  but  no  remark  issued 
from  it.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  solid  furniture  is 
not  easy  to  move,  and  that  it  has  this  advantage  in  con- 
sequence— that  there  is  no  fear  of  upsetting  it. 

Unusually  silent  and  unusually  constrained  —  with 
the  bright  color  fast  fading  from  her  face,  with  a  fever- 
ish energy  possessing  her  fingers — the  pretty  Marguerite 
bent  over  her  embroidery,  and  worked  as  if  her  life 
depended  on  it.    Hardly  less  agitated  hims^^lf.  Vondale 


616  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS 


felt  the  importance  of  leading  her  very  gently  to  the 
avowal  which  he  was  eager  to  make — to  the  other  sweeter 
avowal  still,  which  he  was  longing  to  hear.  A  woman^s 
love  is  never  to  be  taken  by  storm  ;  it  yields  insensibly 
to  a  system  of  gradual  approach.  It  ventures  by  the 
roundabout  way,  and  listens  to  the  low  voice.  Vendale 
led  her  memory  back  to  their  past  meetings  when  they 
were  travelling  together  in  Switzerland.  They  revived 
the  impressions,  they  recalled  the  events,  of  the  happy 
by-gone  time.  Little  by  little  Marguerite's  constraint 
vanished.  She  smiled,  she  was  interested,  she  looked  at 
Vendale,  she  grew  idle  with  her  needle,  she  made  false 
stitches  in  her  work.  Their  voices  sank  lower  and  lower  ; 
their  faces  bent  nearer  to  each  other  as  they  spoke.  And 
Madame  Dor  ?  Dor  behaved  like  an  angel  She  never 
looked  round  ;  she  never  said  a  word  ;  slie  went  on  with 
Obenreizer's  stockings.  Pulling  each  stocking  up  tight 
over  her  left  arm,  and  holding  that  arm  aloft  from  time 
to  time,  to  catch  the  light  on  her  work,  there  were  mo- 
ments —  delicate  and  indescribable  moments — when 
Madame  Dor  appeared  to  be  sitting  upside  down,  and 
contemplatmg  one  of  her  own  respectable  legs  elevated 
in  the  air.  As  the  minutes  wore  on,  these  elevations 
followed  each  other  at  longer  and  longer  intervals.  Now 
and  again,  the  black  gauze  head-dress  nodded,  dropped 
forward,  recovered  itself.  A  little  heap  of  stockings 
slid  softly  from  Madame  Dor's  lap,  and  remained  un- 
noticed on  the  floor.  A  prodigious  ball  of  worsted  fol- 
lowed the  stockings,  and  rolled  lazily  under  the  table. 
The  black  gauze  head-dress  nodded,  dropped  forward, 
recovered  itself,  nodded  again,  dropped  forward  again, 
and  recovered  itself  no  more.  A  composite  sound,  partly 
as  of  the  purring  of  an  immense  cat,  partly  as  of  the 
planing  of  a  board,  arose  over  the  hushed  voices  of  the 
lovers,  and  hummed  at  regular  intervals  through  the 
room.  Nature  and  Madame  Dor  had  combined  together 
in  Vendale 's  interests.    The  best  of  v/omen  was  asleep. 

Marguerite  rose  to  stop — not  the  snoring — let  us  say, 
the  audible  repose  of  Madame  Dor.  Vendale  laid  his 
hand  on  her  arm,  and  pressed  her  back  gently  into  her 
chair. 

Don't  disturb  her,"  he  whispered.  I  have  been, 
waiting  to  tell  you  a  secret.    Let  me  tell  it  now." 

Marguerite  resumed  her  seat.  She  tried  to  resume 
her  needle.  It  was  useless  ;  her  eyes  failed  her ;  her 
hand  failed  her  ;  she  could  find  nothing. 

We  have  been  talking,"  said  Vendale,  ''of  the  happy 
time  when  we  first  met,  and  first  travelled  together.  I 
have  a  confession  to  make.  I  have  been  concealing 
something.  When  we  spoke  of  my  first  visit  to  Switzer- 
land, I  told  you  of  all  the  impressions  I  had  brought 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


617 


back  with  me  from  England — except  one.  Can  you  guess 
what  that  one  is  ?  " 

Her  eyes  looked  steadfastly  at  the  embroidery,  and 
her  face  turned  a  little  way  from  him.  Signs  of  dis- 
turbance began  to  appear  in  her  neat  velvet  bodice, 
round  the  region  of  the  brooch.  She  made  no  reply. 
Vendale  pressed  the  question  without  mercy. 

Can  you  guess  what  the  one  Swiss  impression  is, 
which  I  have  not  told  you  yet  ?  " 

Her  face  turned  back  towards  him,  and  a  faint  smile 
trembled  on  her  lips. 

An  impression  of  the  mountains,  perhaps  she  said 
slyly. 

"  No  ;  a  much  more  precious  impression  than  that." 
*^  Of  the  lakes?" 

*  *  No.  The  lakes  have  not  grown  dearer  and  dearer  in 
remembrance  to  me  every  day.  The  lakes  are  not  asso- 
ciated with  my  happiness  in  the  present,  and  my  hopes 
in  the  future.  Marguerite  !  all  that  makes  life  worth 
having  hangs,  for  me,  on  a  word  from  your  lips.  Mar- 
guerite 1  I  love  you  ! " 

Her  head  dropped  as  he  took  her  hand.  He  drew  her 
to  him,  and  looked  at  her.  The  tears  escaped  from 
her  downcast  eyes,  and  fell  slowly  over  her  cheeks. 

''O,  Mr.  Vendale,"  she  said  sadly,  *'It  would  have 
been  kinder  to  have  kept  your  secret.  Have  you  forgot- 
ten the  distance  beeween  us  ?    It  can  never,  never  be  ! " 

There  can  b^  but  one  distance  between  us.  Marguerite 
— a  distance  of  your  making.  My  love,  my  darling,  there 
is  no  higher  rank  in  goodness,  there  is  no  higher  rank 
in  beauty,  than  yours  !  Come  !  whisper  the  one  little 
word  which  tells  me  you  will  be  my  wife  I  " 

She  sighed  bitterly.  "Think  of  your  family,"  she 
murmured  ,  "and  think  of  mine  V 

Vendale  drew  her  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"If  you  dwell  on  such  an  obstacle  as  that,"  he  said, 
"  I  shall  think  but  one  thought — I  shall  think  I  have 
offended  you." 

She  started,  and  looked  up.  "  O,  no  !  "  she  exclaimed 
innocently.  The  instant  the  words  passed  her  lips,  she 
saw  the  construction  that  might  be  placed  on  them.  Her 
confession  had  escaped  her  in  spite  of  herself.  A  lovely 
blush  of  colour  overspread  her  face.  She  made  a  mo- 
mentary effort  to  disengage  herself  from  her  lover's  em- 
brace. She  looked  up  at  him  entreatingly.  She  tried 
to  speak.  The  words  died  on  her  lips  in  the  kiss  that 
Vendale  pressed  on  them.  "  Let  me  go,  Mr.  Vendale  ! " 
she  said  faintly. 

"Call  me  George." 

She  laid  her  head  on  his  bosom.  All  her  heart  went 
out  to  him  at  last.    "  George  ! she  whispered. 


618 


WORE6  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS^ 


**  Say  you  love  me  ! " 

Her  arms  twined  gently  round  his  neck.  Her  lips, 
timidly  touching  his  cheek,  murmured  the  delicious 
words — '*  I  love  you  ! " 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed,  the  sound  of 
the  opening  and  closing  of  the  house-door  came  clear  to 
them  through  the  wintry  stillness  of  the  street. 

Marguerite  started  to  her  feet. 
Let  me  go  !  "  she  said.      He  has  come  back  ! " 

She  hurried  from  the  room,  and  touched  Madame 
Dor's  shoulder  in  passing.  Madame  Dor  woke  up  witli 
a  loud  snort,  looked  first  over  one  shoulder  and  then  over 
the  other,  peered  down  into  her  lap,  and  discovered 
neither  stockings,  worsted,  nor  darning-needle  in  it.  At 
the  same  moment,  footsteps  became  audible  ascending 
the  stairs.  Mon  Dieu  ! "  said  Madame  Dor,  addressing 
herself  to  the  stove,  and  trembling  violently.  Vendale 
picked  up  the  stockings  and  the  ball,  and  huddled  them 
all  back  in  a  heap  over  his  shoulder.  *'Mon  Dieu!*' 
said  Madame  Dor,  for  tlie  second  time,  as  the  avalanche 
of  worsted  poured  into  her  capacious  lap. 

The  door  opened,  and  Obenreizer  came  in.  His  first 
glance  round  the  room  showed  him  that  Marguerite  was 
absent. 

**What!"  he  exclaimed,  ''my  niece  is  away?  My 
niece  is  not  here  to  entertain  you  in  my  absence?  This 
is  unpardonable.    I  shall  bring  her  back  instantly." 

Vendale  stopped  him. 

*'I  beg  you  will  not  disturb  Miss  Obenreizer,"  he  said. 
''You  have  returned,  I  see,  without  your  friend  ?  " 

"  My  friend  remains,  and  consoles  our  afflicted  com' 
patriot.  A  heart-rending  scene,  Mr.  Vendale !  The 
household  gods  at  the  pawnbroker's — ^the  family  im- 
mersed in  tears.  We  all  embraced  in  silence.  My  ad< 
mirable  friend  alone  possessed  his  composure.  He  sent 
out,  on  the  spot,  for  a  bottle  of  wine." 

"  Can  I  say  a  word  to  you  in  private,  Mr.  Obenreizer  ?  " 

' '  Assuredly. "  He  turned  to  Madame  Dor.  ' '  My  good 
creature,  you  are  sinking  for  w^ant  of  repose.  Mr.  Ven- 
dale will  excuse  you. " 

Madame  Dor  rose,  and  sot  forth  sideways  on  her  jour- 
ney  from  the  stove  to  bed.  She  dropped  a  stocking. 
Vendale  picked  it  up  for  her,  and  opened  one  of  the  fold- 
ing-doors. She  advanced  a  step,  and  dropped  three 
more  stockings.  Vendale,  stooping  to  recover  them  as 
before,  Obenreizer  interfered  with  profuse  apologies,  and 
with  a  warning  look  at  Madame  Dor.  Madame  Dor  ac- 
knowledged the  look  by  dropping  the  whole  of  the  stock- 
ings in  a  heap,  and  then  shuffling  away  panic-stricken 
from  the  scene  of  disaster.  Obenreizer  swept  up  the 
complete  collection  fiercely  in  both  hands*    "Gol"  he 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


(519 


cried,  giving  his  prodi^ous  liandf  ul  a  preparatory  swing 
in  the  air.  Madame  Dor  said,  ''Mon  Dieu,"  and  vanish- 
ed into  the  next  room,  pursued  by  a  shower  of  stockings. 

"  Wliat  mast  you  think,  Mr.  Vendale,"  said  Obenrei- 
zer,  closing  the  door,  of  this  deplorable  intrusion  of 
domestic  details  ?  For  myself,  I  blush  at  it.  We  are 
beginning  the  New  Year  as  badly  as  possible  ;  every- 
thing has  gone  wrong  to-night.  Be  seated,  pray — and 
say,  what  may  I  offer  you  ?  Shall  we  pay  our  best  re- 
spects to  another  of  your  noble  English  institutions  ?  It 
is  my  study  to  be,  what  you  call,  jolly.  I  propose  a 
grog." 

Vendale  declined  the  grog  with  all  needful  respects 
for  that  noble  institution. 

I  wish  to  speak  to  you  on  a  subject  in  which  I  am 
deeply  interested,"  he  said.  You  must  have  observed, 
Mr.  Obenreizer,  that  I  have,  from  the  first,  felt  no  ordi- 
nary admiration  for  your  charming  niece  ?  " 

*'  You  are  very  good.  In  my  niece's  name,  I  thank 
you." 

Perhaps  you  may  have  noticed,  latterly,  that  my  ad- 
miration for  Miss  Obenreizer  has  ^rown  into  a  tenderer 
and  deeper  feeling — ?  " 

"Shall  we  say  friendship,  Mr.  Vendale?" 

"  Say  love — and  we  shall  be  nearer  to  the  truth." 

Obenreizer  started  out  of  his  chair.  The  faintly  dis- 
cernible beat,  which  was  his  nearest  approach  to  a 
change  of  colour,  showed  itself  suddenly  in  his  cheeks. 

"You  are  Miss  Obeneizen's  guardian,"  pursued  Yen- 
dale.  "  I  ask  you  to  confer  upon  me  the  greatest  of  all 
favours — I  ask  you  to  give  me  her  hand  in  marriage." 

Obenreizer  dropped  back  into  his  chair.  "Mr.  Ven- 
dale," he  said,  "  you  petrify  me." 

**I  will  wait,"  "rejoined  Vendale,  "  until  you  have 
recovered  yourself." 

"One  word  before  I  recover  myself.  You  have  said 
nothing  about  this  to  my  niece  ?" 

"I  have  opened  my  whole  heart  to  your  niece.  And 
I  have  reason  to  hope — " 

"  What  !  "  interposed  Obeneizer.  You  have  made  a 
proposal  to  my  niece,  without  first  asking  for  my  authori- 
ty to  pay  your  addresses  to  her  ?  "  He  struck  his  hand 
on  the  table,  and  lost  his  hold  over  himself  for  the  first 
time  in  Vendale's  experience  of  him.  "  Sir  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, indignantly,  "  what  sort  of  conduct  is  this  ?  As 
a  man  of  honour,  speaking  to  a  man  of  honour,  how  can 
you  justify  it  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  justify  it  as  one  of  our  English  institu- 
tions," said  Vendale  quietly.  "  You  admire  our  English 
institutions.  I  can  honestly  tell  you,  Mr.  Obenreizer, 
that  I  regret  what  I  have  done.    I  can  o^y  assure  you 


620  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


that  I  have  not  acted  in  the  matter  with  any  intentional 
disrespect  towards  yourself.  This  said,  may  I  ask  you 
to  tell  me  plainly  what  objection  you  see  to  favouring 
my  suit  ?  " 

"  I  see  this  immense  objection,"  answered  Obenreizer, 
*'  that  my  niece  and  you  are  not  on  a  social  equality  to- 
gether. My  niece  is  the  daughter  of  a  poor  peasant  ; 
and  you  are  the  son  of  a  gentleman.  You  do  us  an  hon- 
our," he  added,  lowering  himself  again  gradually  to  his 
customary  polite  level,  ''which  deserves,  and  has  our 
most  grateful  acknowledgments.  But  the  inequality  is 
too  glaring  ;  the  sacrifice  is  too  great.  You  English  are 
a  proud  people,  Mr.  Vendale.  I  have  observed  enough 
of  this  country  to  see  that  such  a  marriage  as  you  pro- 
pose would  be  a  scandal  here.  Not  a  hand  would  be  held 
out  to  your  peasant-wife ;  and  all  your  best  friends 
would  desert  you." 

One  moment,"  said  Vendale,  interposing  on  his  side. 
''I  may  claim,  without  any  great  arrogance,  to  know 
more  of  my  country-people  in  general,  and  of  my  own 
friends  in  particular,  than  you  do.  In  the  estimation  of 
everybody  whose  opinion  is  worth  having,  my  wife  her- 
self would  be  the  one  sufficient  justification  of  my  mar- 
riage. If  I  did  not  feel  certain — observe  I  say  certain — 
that  I  am  offering  her  a  position  which  she  can  accept 
without  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  humiliation — I  would 
never  (cost  me  what  it  might)  have  asked  her  to  be  my 
wife.  Is  there  any  other  obstacle  that  you  see  ?  Have 
you  any  personal  objection  to  me  ?  " 

Obenreizer  spread  out  both  his  hands  in  courteous  pro- 
test. ''Personal  objection!"  he  exclaimed.  "Dear 
sir,  the  bare  question  is  painful  to  me." 

"  We  are  both  men  of  business,"  pursued  Vendale, 
"  and  you  naturally  expect  me  to  satisfy  you  that  I  have 
the  means  of  supporting  a  wife.  I  can  explain  my  pe- 
cuniary position  in  two  words.  I  inherit  from  my  parents 
a  fortune  of  twenty  thousand  pounds.  In  half  of  that 
sum  I  have  only  a  life-interest,  to  which,  if  I  die,  leav- 
ing a  widow,  my  widow  succeeds.  If  I  die,  leaving 
children,  the  money  itself  is  divided  among  them,  as 
they  come  of  age.  The  other  half  of  my  fortune  is  at 
my  own  disposal,  and  is  invested  in  the  wine-business. 
I  see  my  way  to  greatly  improving  that  business.  As  it 
stands  at  present  I  cannot  state  my  return  from  my  capi- 
tal embarked  at  more  than  twelve  hundred  a  year.  Add 
the  yearly  value  of  my  life  interest — and  the  total  reaches 
a  present  annual  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  I  have 
the  fairest  prospect  of  soon  making  it  more.  In  the  mean 
time,  do  you  object  to  me  on  pecuniary  grounds?" 

Driven  back  to  his  last  entrenchment,  Obenreizer  rose, 
and  took  a  turn  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  room. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


621 


iFor  the  moment,  he  was  plainly  at  a  loss  what  to  say  or 
do  next. 

"  "  Before  I  answer  that  last  question,"  he  said,  after  a 
little  close  consideration  with  himself,  I  beg  leave  to 
revert  for  a  moment  to  Miss  Marguerite.  You  said 
something  just  now  which  seemed  to  imply  that  she  re- 
turns the  sentiment  with  which  you  are  pleased  to  re- 
gard her  ?  " 

*'  I  have  the  inestimable  happiness,''  said  Vendale,  of 
knowing  that  she  loves  me." 

Obenreizer  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  with  the  film 
over  his  eyes,  and  the  faintly  perceptible  beat  becoming 
visible  again  in  his  cheeks. 

If  you  will  excuse  me  for  a  few  minutes,"  ho  said, 
with  ceremonious  politeness,  I  should  like  to  have  the 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  my  niece."  With  those 
words,  he  bowed,  and  quitted  the  roona. 

Left  by  himself,  Vendale's  thoughts  (as  a  necessary  re- 
sult of  the  interview,  thus  far)  turned  instinctively  to  the 
consideration  of  Obenreizer's  motives.  He  had  put  ob- 
stacles in  the  way  of  the  courtship  ;  he  was  now  putting 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  marriage — a  marriage  offer- 
ing advantages  which  even  his  ingenuity  could  not  dis- 
pute. On  the  face  of  it,  his  conduct  was  incomprehensi- 
ble.   What  did  it  mean  ? 

Seeking,  under  the  surface,  for  the  answer  to  that  ques- 
tion— and  remembering  that  Obenreizer  was  a  man  of 
about  his  own  age  ;  also,  that  Marguerite  was,  strictly 
speaking,  his  half-niece  only — Vendale  asked  himself, 
with  a  lover's  ready  jealousy,  whether  he  had  a  rival  to 
fear,  as  well  as  a  guardian  to  conciliate.  The  thought 
just  crossed  his  mind,  aud  no  more.  The  sense  of  Mar- 
guerite's kiss  still  lingering  on  his  cheek  reminded  him 
gently  that  even  the  jealousy  of  a  moment  was  now  a 
treason  to  her. 

On  reflection,  it  seemed  most  likely  that  a  personal 
motive  of  another  kind  might  suggest  the  true  explana- 
tion of  Obenreizer's  conduct.  Marguerite's  grace  and 
beauty  were  precious  ornaments  in  that  little  household. 
They  gave  it  a  special  social  attraction  and  a  special  so- 
cial importance.  They  armed  Obenreizer  with  a  certain 
influence  in  reserve,  which  he  could  always  depend  upon 
to  make  his  house  attractive,  and  which  he  might  always 
bring  more  or  less  to  bear  on  the  forwarding  of  his  own 
private  ends^.  Was  he  the  sort  of  man  to  resign  such 
advantages  as  were  here  implied,  without  obtaining  the 
fullest  possible  compensation  for  the  loss  ?  A  connection 
by  marriage  with  Vendale  offered  him  solid  advantages, 
beyond  all  doubt.  But  there  were  hundreds  of  men  in 
London  with  far  greater  power  and  far  wider  influence 
than  Vendale  possessed.    Was  it  possible  that  this  man's 


622 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ambition  secretly  looked  higher  than  the  highest  pros- 
pects that  could  be  afforded  to  him  by  the  alliance  now 
proposed  for  his  niece  ?  As  the  question  passed  through 
Vendale's  mind,  the  man  himself  reappeared — to  answer 
it,  or  not  to  answer  it,  as  the  event  might  prove. 

A  marked  change  was  visible  in  Obenreizer  when  he 
resumed  his  place.  His  manner  was  less  assured,  and 
there  were  plain  trac.es  about  his  mouth  of  recent  agita- 
tion which  had  not  been  successfully  composed.  Had  he 
said  something,  referring  either  to  Vendale  or  to  himself, 
which  had  raised  Marguerite's  spirit,  and  which  had 
placed  him,  for  the  first  time,  face  to  face  with  a  resolute 
assertion  of  his  niece's  will  ?  It  might  or  might  not  be. 
This  only  was  certain — he  looked  like  a  man  who  had 
met  with  a  repulse. 

**  I  have  spoken  to  my  niece,'*  he  began.  "  I  find,  Mr. 
Vendale,  that  even  yoar  influence  has  not  entirely  blind- 
ed her  to  the  social  objections  to  your  proposal. 

"  May  I  ask,"  returned  Vendale,  **  if  that  is  the  only 
result  of  your  interview  with  Miss  Obenreizer?" 

A  momentary  flash  leapt  out  through  the  Obenreizer 
film. 

"  You  are  master  of  the  situation,"  he  answered,  in  a 
tone  of  sardonic  submission.  If  you  insist  on  my  ad- 
mitting it,  I  do  admit  it  in  those  words.  My  niece's  will 
and  mine  used  to  be  one,  Mr.  Vendale.  You  have  come 
between  us,  and  her  will  is  now  yours.  In  my  country, 
we  know  when  we  are  beaten,  and  we  submit  with  our 
best  grace.  I  submit,  with  my  best  grace,  on  certain 
conditions.  Let  us  revert  to  the  statement  of  your  pe- 
cuniary position,  I  have  an  objection  to  you,  my  dear  sir 
— a  most  amazing,  a  most  audacious  objection^  from  a 
man  in  my  position  to  a  man  in  yours." 

"  What  is  it?" 
You  have  honoured  me  by  making  a  proposal  for  my 
niece's  hand.    For  the  present  (with  best  thanks  and  re- 
spects), I  beg  to  decline  it." 

''Why?" 

*'  Because  you  are  not  rich  enough."  • 

The  objection,  as  the  speaker  had  foreseen,  took  Ven- 
dale completely  by  surprise.  For  the  moment  he  was 
speechless. 

'*Your  income  is  fifteen  hundred  a  year,"  pursued 
Obenreizer.  In  my  miserable  country  I  should  fall  on 
my  knees  before  your  income,  and  say,  '  What  a  princely 
fortune  ! '  In  wealthy  England,  I  sit  as  I  am,  and  say, 
*  A  modest  independence,  dear  sir,  nothing  more.  Enough, 
perhaps,  for  a  wife  in  your  rank  of  life,  who  has  no 
social  prejudice  to  conquer.  Not  more  than  half  enough 
for  a  wife  who  is  a  meanly  born  foreigner,  and  who  has 
all  your  social  prejudices  against  her/    Sir  !  if  my  niece 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


is  ever  to  marry  you,  she  will  have  what  you  call  uphill 
wTork  of  it  in  taking  her  place  at  starting.  Yes,  yes  ; 
this  is  not  your  view,  but  it  remains,  immovably  remains, 
my  view  for  all  that.  For  my  niece's  sake,  I  claim  that 
this  uphill  work  shall  be  made  as  smooth  as  possible. 
Whatever  material  advantages  she  can  have  to  help  her, 
ought,  in  common  justice,  to  be  hers.  Now,  tell  me, 
Mr.  Vendale,  on  your  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  can  your 
wife  have  a  house  in  a  fashionable  quarter,  a  footman  to 
open  her  door,  a  butler  to  wait  at  her  table,  and  a  car- 
riage and  horses  to  drive  about  in?  I  see  the  answer  in 
your  face — your  face  says,  No.  Very  good.  Tell  me 
one  more  thing,  and  I  have  done.  Take  the  mass  of 
your  educated,  accomplished,  and  lovely  countrywomen, 
is  it,  or  is  it  not,  the  fact  that  a  lady  who  has  a  house  in 
a  fashionable  quarter,  a  footman  to  open  her  door,  a  but- 
ler to  wait  at  her  table,  and  a  carriage  and  horses  to 
drive  about  in,  is  a  lady  who  has  gained  four  steps,  in 
female  estimation,  at  starting?    Yes?  or  No?" 

Come  to  the  point,"  said  Vendale.  ''You  view  this 
question  as  a  question  of  terms.  What  are  your  terms?" 

**  The  lowest  terms,  dear  sir,  on  which  you  can  provide 
your  wife  with  those  four  steps  at  starting.  Double 
your  present  income — the  most  rigid  economy  cannot  do 
it  in  England  on  less.  You  said  just  now  that  you  ex~ 
pected  greatly  to  increase  the  value  of  your  business. 
To  work — and  increase  it !  I  am  a  good  devil  after  all  i 
On  the  day  when  you  satisfy  me,  by  plain  proofs,  that 
your  income  has  risen  to  three  thousand  a  year,  ask  me 
for  my  niece's  hand,  and  it  is  yours." 

*' May  I  inquire  if  you  have  mentioned  this  arrange- 
ment to  Miss  Obenreizer  ?  " 

'*  Certainly.  She  has  a  little  morsel  of  regard  still  left 
for  me,  Mr.  Vendale,  which  is  not  yours  yet ;  and  she 
accepts  my  terms.  In  other  words,  she  submits  to  bo 
guided  by  her  guardian's  regard  for  her  welfare,  and  by 
her  guardian's  superior  knowledge  of  the  world."  He 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  in  firm  reliance  on  his 
position,  and  in  full  possession  of  his  excellent  temper. 

Any  open  assertion  of  his  own  interests,  in  the  situa- 
tion in  which  Vendale  was  now  placed,  seemed  to  be 
(for  the  present  at  least,  hopeless.  He  found  himself 
literally  left  with  no  ground  to  stand  on.  Whether 
Obenreizer's  objeci^lons  were  the  genuine  product  of 
Obenreizer's  own  view  of  the  case,  or  whether  he  was 
simply  delaying  the  marriage  in  the  hope  of  ultimately 
breaking  it  off  altogether — in  either  of  these  events,  any 
present  resistance  on  Vendale 's  part  would  be  equally 
useless.  There  was  no  help  for  it  but  to  yield,  making 
the  best  terms  that  he  could  on  his  own  side. 

I  protest  against  the  conditions  you  impose  upon 
me,"  he  began. 


624 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


**  Naturally,"  said  Obenreizer  ;  "  I  dare  say  I  should 
protest,  myself,  in  your  place." 

"  Say,  however,"  pursued  Vendale,  "  that  I  accept 
your  terms.  In  that  case,  I  must  be  permitted  to  make 
two  stipulations  on  my  part.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall 
expect  to  be  allowed  to  see  your  niece." 

Aha  !  to  see  my  niece  and  to  make  her  in  as  great  a 
hurry  to  be  married  as  you  are  yourself  ?  Suppose  I  say. 
No  !  you  would  see  her  perhaps  without  my  permission  ? 

"Decidedly  I" 

"  How  delightfully  frank  !  How  exquisitely  English  I 
You  shall  see  her,  Mr,  Vendale,  on  certain  days,  which 
we  will  appoint  together.    What  next?" 

"Your  objection  to  my  income,"  proceeded  Vendale, 
"  has  taken  me  completely  by  surprise.  Your  present 
views  of  my  qualifications  for  marriage  require  me  to 
have  an  income  of  three  thousand  a  year.  Can  I  be  cer- 
tain, in  the  future,  as  your  experience  of  England  en- 
larges, that  your  estimate  will  rise  no  higher 

"  In  plain  English,"  said  Obenreizer,  "  you  doubt  ray 
word?" 

"  Do  you  purpose  to  take  my  word  for  it  when  I 
inform  you  that  I  have  doubled  my  income  ? "  asked 
Vendale.  "If  my  memory  does  not  deceive  me,  you 
stipulated,  a  minute  since,  for  plain  proofs  ?  " 

"  Well  played  Mr.  Vendale  !  You  combine  the  foreign 
quickness  with  the  English  solidity.  Accept  my  best 
congratulations.    Accept,  also,  my  written  guarantee." 

He  rose ;  seated  himself  at  a  writing-desk  at  a  side- 
table,  wrote  a  few  lines,  and  presented  them  to  Vendale 
with  a  low  bow.  The  engagement  was  perfectly  ex- 
plicit, and  was  signed  and  dated  with  scrupulous  care. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  your  guarantee  ?  " 

"  I  am  satisfied." 

"  Charmed  to  hear  it,  I  am  sure.  We  have  had  our 
little  skirmish — we  have  really  been  wonderfully  clever 
on  both  sides.  For  the  present  our  affairs  are  settled.  I 
bear  no  malice.  You  bear  no  malice:  Come,  Mr.  Ven- 
dale, a  good  English  shake  hands.  ' 

V endale  gave  his  hand,  a  little  bewildered  by  Oben«> 
reizer's  sudden  transitions  from  one  humour  to  another. 

"  When  may  I  expect  to  see  Miss  Obenreizer  again  ? 
he  asked,  as  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Honour  me  with  a  visit  to-morrow,"  said  Obenreizer, 
"  and  we  will  settle  it  then.  Do  have  a  grog  before  you 
go  !  No?  Well  !  well  !  we  will  reserve  the  grog  till 
you  have  your  three  thousand  a  year,  and  are  ready  to 
be  married.    Aha  I    When  will  that  be  ?  " 

"I  made  an  estimate,  some  months  since,  of  the  cap- 
acities of  my  business,"  said  Vendale.  "  If  that  estimate 
is  correct,  I  shall  double  my  present  income — " 

"  And  be  married  ! "  added  Obenreizer. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


625 


"  And  be  married  I "  repeated  Vendale,  within  a  year 
from  this  time.  Good-night.'* 

VENDALE  MAKES  MISCHIEF. 

When  Vendale  entered  his  office  the  next  morning,  the 
dull  commercial  routine  at  Cripple  Corner  met  him  with 
a  new  face.  Marguerite  had  an  interest  in  it  now  1  The 
whole  machinery  which  Wilding's  death  had  set  in  mot- 
ion, to  realize  the  value  of  the  business — the  balancing 
of  ledgers,  the  estimating  of  debts,  the  taking  of  stock, 
and  the  rest  of  it — was  now  transformed  into  machinery 
which  indicated  the  chances  for  and  against  a  speedy 
marriage.  After  looking  after  results,  as  presented  by 
his  accountant,  and  checking  additions  and  subtractions, 
as  rendered  by  the  clerks,  Vendale  turned  his  attention 
to  the  stock-taking  department  next,  and  sent  a  message 
to  the  cellars,  desiring  to  see  the  report. 

The  Cellarman's  appearance,  the  moment  he  put  his 
head  in  at  the  door  of  his  master's  private  room,  sug- 
gested that  something  extraordinary  must  have  happened 
that  morning.  There  was  an  approach  to  alacrity  in 
Joey  Ladle's  movements  !  There  was  something  which 
actually  simulated  cheerfulness  in  Joey  Ladle's  face. 

What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Vendale.  Anything 
wrong  ?  " 

I  should  wish  to  mention  one  thing,"  answered  Joey. 
Young  Mr.  Vendale,  I  have  never  set  myself  up  for  a 
prophet." 

Who  ever  said  you  did  ?" 
**No  prophet  as  far  as  I've  heard  tell  of  that  profes- 
sion," proceeded  Joey,  *'ever  lived  principally  under- 
ground. No  prophet,  whatever  else  he  might  take  in  at 
the  pores,  ever  took  in  wine  from  morning  to  night  for 
a  number  of  years  together.  When  I  said  to  young  Mas- 
ter Wilding,  respecting  his  changing  the  name  of  the 
firm,  that  one  of  these  days  he  might  find  he'd  changed 
the  luck  of  the  firm — did  I  put  myself  forward  as  a  pro- 
phet ?  No,  I  didn't.  Has  what  I  said  to  him  come  true  ? 
Yes,  it  has.  In  the  time  of  Pebbleson  Nephew,  Young 
Mr.  Vendale,  no  such  thing  was  ever  known  as  a  mistake 
made  in  a  consignment  delivered  at  these  doors.  There's 
a  mistake  been  made  now.  Please  to  remark  that  it  hap- 
pened before  Miss  Margaret  came  here.  For  which  rea- 
son it  don't  go  against  what  I've  said  respecting  Miss 
Margaret  singing  round  the  luck.  Read  that,  sir,"  con- 
cluded Joey,  pointing  attention  to  a  special  passage  in 
the  report,  with  a  forefinger  which  appeared  to  be  in 
process  of  taking  in  through  the  pores  nothing  more  re- 
markable than  dirt.  It's  foreign  to  my  nature  to  crow 
over  the  house  I  serve,  but  I  feel  it  a  kind  of  a  sol- 
emn duty  to  ask  you  to  read  that." 


626  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Vendale  read  as  follows  :  — "  Note,  respecting  the 
Swiss  champagne.  An  irregularity  has  been  discovered 
in  the  last  consignment  received  from  the  firm  of  De- 
fresnier  and  Co."  Vendale  stopped,  and  referred  to  a 
memorandum-book  by  his  side.  That  was  in  Mr. 
Wilding's  time,"  he  said.  The  vintage  was  a  particu- 
larly good  one,  and  he  took  the  whole  of  it.  The  Swiss 
champagne  has  done  very  well  hasn't  it  ? " 

I  don't  say  it's  done  badly,"  answered  the  Cellarman. 
*'  It  may  have  got  sick  in  our  customers'  bins,  or  it  may 
have  bust  in  our  customers'  hands.  But  I  don't  say  it's 
done  badly  with  us.'* 

Vendale  resumed  the  reading  of  the  note  :  "  We  find 
the  number  of  the  cases  to  be  quite  correct  by  the  books. 
But  six  of  them,  which  present  a  slight  difference  from 
the  rest  in  the  brand,  have  been  opened,  and  have  been 
found  to  contain  a  red  wine  instead  of  champagne.  The 
similarity  in  the  brands,  we  suppose,  caused  a  mistake 
to  be  made  in  sending  the  consignment  from  Neuchatel. 
The  error  has  not  been  found  to  extend  beyond  six 
cases." 

"Is  that  all  !"  exclaimed  Vendale,  tossing  the  note 
away  from  him. 

Joey  Ladle's  eyes  followed  the  flying  morsel  of  paper 
drearily. 

I'm  glad  to  see  you  take  it  easy,  sir,  he  said. 
"Whatever  happens,  it  will  be  always  a  comfort  to  you 
to  remember  that  you  took  it  easy  at  first.  Sometimes 
one  mistake  leads  to  another.  A  man  drops  a  bit  of 
orange-peel  on  the  pavement  by  mistake,  and  another 
man  treads  on  it  by  mistake,  and  there's  a  job  at  the 
hospital,  and  a  party  crippled  for  life.  I'm  glad  you 
take  it  easy,  sir.  In  Pebbleson  Nephew's  time  we 
shouldn't  have  taken  it  easy  till  we  had  seen  the  end  of 
it.  Without  desiring  to  crow  over  the  house.  Young 
Mr.  Vendale,  I  wish  you  well  through  it.  No  offence, 
sir,"  said  the  Cellarman,  opening  the  door  to  go  out,  and 
looking  in  again  ominously  before  he  shut  it.  "I'm 
muddled  and  molloncholy,  I  grant  you.  But  I'm  an  old 
servant  of  Pebbleson  Nephew,  and  I  wish  you  well 
through  them  six  cases  of  red  wine." 

Left  by  himself,  Vendale  laughed,  and  took  up  his 
pen.  "I  may  as  well  send  a  line  to  Defresnier  and 
Company,"  he  thought,  "  before  I  forget  it."  He  wrote 
at  once  in  these  terms  : 

Dear  Sirs, — We  are  taking  stock,  and  a  trifling  mis- 
take has  been  discovered  in  the  last  consignment  of 
champagne  sent  by  your  house  to  ours.  Six  of  the  cases 
contain  red  wine — which  we  hereby  return  to  you.  The 
matter  can  easily  be  set  right  either  by  your  sending  us 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


627 


six  cases  of  the  champagne,  if  they  can  be  produced,  or, 
if  not,  by  your  crediting  us  with  the  value  of  six  cases 
on  the  amount  last  paid  (five  hundred  pounds)  by  our  firm 
to  yours.    Your  faifchful  servants, 

"  WiLDIKG  &  Co." 

This  letter  dispatched  to  the  post,  the  subject  dropped 
at  once  out  of  Vendale's  mind.  He  had  other  and  far 
more  interesting  matters  to  think  of.  Later  in  the  day 
he  paid  the  visit  to  Obenreizer  which  had  been  agreed 
on  between  them.  Certain  evenings  in  the  week  were 
set  apart  which  he  was  privileged  to  spend  with  Mar- 
guerite— always,  however,  in  the  presence  of  a  third 
person.  On  this  stipulation  Obenreizer  x)olitely  but  posir 
tively  insisted.  The  one  concession  he  made  was  to  give 
Vendale  his  choice  of  whom  the  third  person  should  be. 
Confiding  in  past  experience,  his  choice  fell  unhesita- 
tingly upon  the  excellent  woman  who  mended  Obenrei- 
zer's  stockings.  On  hearing  of  the  responsibility  en 
trusted  to  her,  Madame  Dor's  intellectual  nature  burst 
suddenly  into  a  new  stage  of  development.  She  waited 
till  Obenreizer's  eyes  were  ofE  her — and  then  she  lookad 
at  Vendale,  and  dimly  winked. 

The  time  passed — the  happy  evenings  with  Marguerite 
came  and  went.  It  was  the  tenth  morning  since  Ven- 
dale had  written  to  the  Swiss  firm,  when  the  answer  ap- 
peared on  his  desk,  with  the  other  letters  of  the  day  : 

Dear  Sirs, — We  beg  to  offer  our  excuses  for  the  little 
mistake  which  has  happened.  At  the  same  time,  we 
regret  to  add  that  the  statement  of  our  error,  with 
which  you  have  favoured  us,  has  led  to  a  very  unex- 
pected discovery.  The  affair  is  a  most  serious  one  for 
you  and  for  us.    The  particulars  are  as  follows  : 

Having  no  more  champagne  of  the  vintage  last  sent 
to  you,  we  made  arrangements  to  credit  your  firm  with 
the  value  of  the  six  cases,  as  suggested  by  yourself. 
On  taking  this  step,  certain  forms  observed  in  our  mode 
of  doing  business  necessitated  a  reference  to  our  bankers' 
book,  as  well  as  to  our  ledger.  The  result  is  a  mortal 
certainty  that  no  such  remittance  as  you  mention  can 
have  reached  our  house,  an^  a  literal  certainty  that  no 
such  remittance  has  been  paid  to  our  account  at  the 
bank. 

*^It  is  needless,  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  to 
trouble  you  with  details.  The  money  has  unquestion- 
ably been  stolen  in  the  course  of  its  transit  from  you  to 
us.  Certain  peculiarities  which  w^e  observe,  relating  to 
the  manner  in  which  the  fraud  has  been  perpetrated, 
lead  us  to  conclude  that  the  thief  may  have  calculated 
on  being  able  to  pay  the  missing  sum  to  our  bankers. 


628  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


before  an  inevitable  discovery  followed  the  annual  strik- 
ing of  our  balance.  This  would  not  have  happened,  in 
the  usual  course,  for  another  three  months.  During 
that  period,  but  for  your  letter,  we  might  have  remained 
perfectly  unconscious  of  the  robbery  that  has  been  com- 
mitted. 

"  We  mention  this  last  oircumstance,  as  it  may  help  to 
show  you  that  we  have  to  do,  in  this  case,  with  no  ordi- 
jflary  thief.  Thus  far  we  have  not  even  a  suspicion  of 
who  that  thief  is.  But  we  believe  you  will  assist  us  ia 
making  some  advance  towards  discovery,  by  examining 
the  receipt  (forged,  of  course)  which  has  no  doubt  pur- 
ported to  come  to  you  from  our  house.  Be  pleased  to 
look  and  see  whether  it  is  a  receipt  entirely  in  manu- 
script, or  whether  it  is  a  numbered  and  printed  form 
which  merely  requires  to  the  filling  in  of  the  account. 
The  settlement  of  this  apparently  trivial  question  is,  we 
assure  you,  a  matter  of  vital  importance.  Anxiously 
awaiting  your  reply,  we  remain,  with  high  esteem  and 
consideration, 

Defresnier  &  C'"." 

Vendale  had  the  letter  on  his  desk,  and  waited  a  mom- 
ent to  steady  his  mind  under  the  shock  that  had  fallen 
on  it.  At  the  time  of  all  others  when  it  was  most  im- 
portant to  him  to  increase  the  value  of  his  business,  that 
business  was  threatened  with  a  loss  of  five  hundred 
pounds.  He  thought  of  Marguerite,  as  he  took  the  key 
from  his  pocket  and  opened  the  iron  chamber  in  the  wall 
in  which  the  books  and  papers  of  the  firm  were  kept. 

He  was  still  in  the  chamber,  searching  for  the  forged 
receipt,  when  he  was  startled  by  a  voice  speaking  close 
behind  him. 

A  thousand  pardons,"  said  the  voice  ;  I  am  afraid 
I  disturbed  you." 

He  turned,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Mar- 
guerite's guardian. 

*'Ihave  called,"  pursued  Obenreizer,  *'to  know  if  I 
can  be  of  any  use.  Business  of  my  own  takes  me  away 
for  some  days  to  Manchester  and  Liverpool.  Can  I  com- 
bine any  business  of  yours  with  it?  I  am  entirely  at 
your  disposal,  in  the  character  of  commercial  traveller 
for  the  firm  of  Wilding  &  Co." 

Excuse  me  for  one  moment,"  said  Vendale  ;  "I  will 
speak  to  you  directly."  He  turned  round  again,  and 
continued  his  search  among  the  papers.  You  come  at 
a  time  when  friendly  offers  are  more  than  usually  pre- 
cious to  me,"  he  resumed.  I  have  had  very  bad  news 
this  morning  from  Neuchatel." 

'*Bad  news,"  exclaimed  Obenreizer.  ''From  Defres- 
nier and  Company  ?  " 

"  Yes.    A  remittance  we  sent  to  them  has  be^n  stolen. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


629 


I  am  threatened  with  a  loss  of  five  hundred  pounds. 
WJiat's  that?** 

Turning  sharply,  and  looking  into  the  room  for  the 
second  time,  Vendale  discovered  his  envelope  case  over- 
thrown on  the  floor,  and  Obenreizer  on  his  knees  picking 
up  the  contents. 

'*A11  my  awkwardness  I '*  said  Obenreizer,  ''This 
dreadful  news  of  yours  startled  me  ;  I  stepped  back — " 
He  became  too  deeply  interested  in  collecting  the  scat- 
tered envelopes  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself,"  said  Vendale.  ''The  clerk 
will  pick  the  things  up. " 

"This  dreadful  news!"  repeated  Obenreizer,  per- 
sisting in  collecting  the  envelopes.  "  This  dreadful 
news  I "  ' 

"If  you  will  read  the  letter,"  said  Vendale,  "you  will 
find  I  have  exaggerated  nothing.  There  it  is,  open  on 
my  desk." 

He  resumed  his  search,  and  in  a  moment  more  discov- 
ered the  forged  receipt.  It  was  on  the  numbered  and 
printed  form,  described  by  the  Swiss  firm.  Vendale 
made  a  memorandum  of  the  number  and  the  date.  Hav- 
ing replaced  the  receipt  and  locked  up  the  iron  chamber, 
he  had  leisure  to  notice  Obenreizer,  reading  the  letter  in 
the  recess  of  a  window  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

"Come  to  the  fire,"  said  Vendale.  "You  look  per- 
ished with  the  cold  out  there.  I  will  ring  for  some  more 
coals." 

Obenreizer  rose,  and  came  slowly  back  to  the  desk. 
"Marguerite  will  be  as  sorry  to  hear  of  this  as  1  am,"  he 
said,  kindly,    "What  do  you  mean  to  do? " 

"I  am  in  the  hands  of  Defresnier  and  Company,"  an- 
swered Vendale.  "  In  total  ignorance  of  the  circum- 
stances, I  can  only  do  what  they  recommend.  The  re- 
ceipt which  I  have  just  found,  turns  out  to  be  the  num- 
bered and  printed  form.  They  seem  to  attach  some 
special  importance  to  its  discovery.  You  have  had  ex- 
perience, when  you  were  in  the  Swiss  house,  of  their 
way  of  doing  business.  Can  you  guess  what  object  they 
have  in  view  ?  " 

Obenreizer  offered  a  suggestion. 

"Suppose  I  examine  the  receipt?"  he  said. 

"Are  you  ill?"  asked  Vendale,  startled  by  the  change 
in  his  face,  which  now  showed  itself  plainly  for  the  first 
time.  "  Pray  go  to  the  fire.  You  seem  to  be  shivering 
■ — I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  be  ill  ?  " 

"Not  I  !"  said  Obenreizer.  "  Perhaps  I  have  caught 
cold.  Your  English*  climate  might  have  spared  an  ad- 
mirer of  your  English  institutions.  Let  me  look  at  the 
receipt." 

Vendale  opened  the  iron  chamber.    Obenreizer  took  a 


630 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


chair,  and  drew  it  close  to  the  fire.  He  held  both  hands 
over  the  flames.  *'Let  me  look  at  the  receipt,"  he  re- 
peated, eagerly,  as  Vendale  reappeared  with  the  paper 
in  his  hand.  At  the  same  moment  a  porter  entered  the 
room  with  a  fresh  supply  of  coals.  Vendale  told  him  to 
make  a  good  fire.  The  man  obeyed  the  other  with  a  dis- 
astrous alacrity.  As  he  stepped  forward  and  raised  the 
scuttle,  his  foot  caught  in  a  fold  of  the  rug,  and  he  dis- 
charged his  entire  scuttle  of  coals  into  the  grate.  The 
result  was  an  instant  smothering  of  the  flame,  and  the 
production  of  a  stream  of  yellow  smoke,  without  a  visi- 
ble morsel  of  fire  to  account  for  it. 

"Imbecile!  whispered  Dbenreizer  to  himself,  with 
a  look  at  the  man  which  the  man  remembered  for  many 
a  long  day  afterwards. 

Will  you  come  into  the  clerks'  room?*'  asked  Ven- 
dale.      They  have  a  stove  there." 
No,  no.    ''No  matter." 

Vendale  handed  him  the  receipt.  Obenreizer's  inter- 
est in  examining  it  appeared  to  have  been  quenched  as 
suddenly  and  effectually  as  the  fire  itself.  He  just 
glanced  over  the  document  and  said,  *'No;  I  don't  un- 
derstand !    I  am  sorry  to  be  of  no  use." 

*'  I  will  write  to  Neuchatel  by  to-night's  post,"  said 
Vendale,  putting  away  the  receipt  for  the  second  time. 
**  We  must  wait  and  see  what  comes  of  it." 

"By  to-night's  post,"  repeated  Obenreizer.  "Let  me 
see.  You  will  get  the  answer  in  eight  or  nine  days' 
time.  I  shall  be  back  before  that.  If  I  can  be  of  any 
service,  as  conraaercial  traveller,  perhaps  you  will  let 
me  know  between  this  and  then.  You  will  send  me 
written  instructions  ?  My  best  thanks.  I  shall  be  most 
anxious  for  your  answer  from  Neuchatel.  Who  knows. 
It  may  be  a  mistake,  my  dear  friend,  after  all.  Cour- 
age !  courage  !  courage  ! "  He  had  entered  the  room 
with  no  appearance  of  being  pressed  for  time.  He  now 
snatched  up  his  hat,  and  took  his  leave  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  not  another  moment  to  lose. 

Left  by  himself,  Vendale  took  a  turn  thoughtfully  in 
the  room. 

His  previous  impression  of  Obenreizer  was  shaken  by 
what  he  had  heard  and  seen  at  the  interview  which  had 
just  taken  place.  He  was  disposed,  for  the  first  time,  to 
doubt  whether,  in  this  case,  lie  had  not  been  a  little 
hasty  and  hard  in  his  judgment  on  another  man.  Oben- 
reizer's  surprise  and  regret,  on  hearing  the  news  from 
Neuchatel,  bore  the  plainest  marks  of  being  honestly  felt 
— not  politely  assumed  for  the  occasion.  With  troubles 
of  his  own  to  encounter,  suffering,  to  all  appearance, 
from  the  first  insidious  attack  of  a  serious  illness,  he  had 
looked  and  spoken  like  a  man  who  rerlly  deplored  the 


MlSCELLANEOUr). 


631 


disaster  that  had  fallen  on  his  friend.  Hitherto  Vendale 
had  tried  vainly  to  alter  his  first  opinion  of  Marguerite's 
guardian,  for  Marguerite's  sake.  All  this  generous  in- 
stincts in  his  nature  now  combined  together  and  shook 
the  evidence  which  had  seemed  unanswerable  up  to  this 
time.  Who  knows?  "  he  thought,  I  may  have  read 
that  man's  face  wrongly  after  all." 

The  time  passed — the  happy  evenings  with  Margue- 
rite came  and  went.  It  was  again  the  tenth  morning  since 
Vendale  had  written  to  the  Swiss  firm  ;  and  again  the 
answer  appeared  on  his  desk  with  the  other  letters  of 
the  day  : 

Dear  Sir, — My  senior  partner,  M.  Defresnier,  has 
been  called  away,  by  urgent  business,  to  Milan.  In  his 
absence  (and  with  his  full  concurrence  and  authority),  I 
now  write  to  you  again  on  the  subject  of  the  missing  five 
hundred  pounds. 

Your  discovery  that  the  forged  receipt  is  executed 
upon  one  of  our  numbered  and  printed  forms  has  caused 
inexpressible  surprise  and  distress  to  my  partner  and  to 
myself.  At  the  time  when  your  remittance  was  stolen, 
but  three  keys  were  in  existence  opening  the  strong-box 
in  which  our  receipt-forms  are  invariably  kept.  My 
partner  had  one  key  ;  I  had  another.  The  third  was  in  the 
possession  of  a  gentlemen  who,  at  that  period,  occupied 
a  position  of  trust  in  our  house.  We  should  as  soon 
have  thought  of  suspecting  one  of  ourselves  as  of  sus- 
pecting this  person.  Suspicion  now  points  at  him,  never- 
theless. I  cannot  prevail  on  myself  to  inform  you  who 
the  person  is,  so  long  as  there  is  the  shadow  of  a  chance 
that  he* may  come  innocently  out  of  the  inquiry  which 
must  now  be  instituted.  Forgive  my  silence  ;  the  mo- 
tive of  it  is  good. 

•*  The  form  our  investigations  must  now  take  is  simple 
enough.  The  handwriting  on  your  receipt  must  be 
compared,  by  competent  persons  whom  we  have  at  our 
disposal,  with  certain  specimens  of  handwriting  in  our 
possession.  I  cannot  send  you  the  specimens  for  busi- 
ness reasons,  which,  when  you  hear  them,  you  are  sure 
to  approve.  I  must  beg  you  to  send  me  the  receipt  to 
Neuchatel — and,  in  making  this  request,  I  must  accom- 
pany it  by  a  word  of  necessary  warning. 

If  the  person,  at  whom  suspicion  now  points,  really 
proves  to  be  the  person  who  has  committed  this  forgery 
and  theft,  I  have  reason  to  fear  that  circumstances  may 
have  already  put  him  on  his  guard.  The  only  evidence 
against  him  is  the  evidence  in  your  hands,  and  he  will 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  obtain  and  destroy  it.  I 
strongly  urge  you  not  to  trust  the  receipt  to  post.  Send 


632  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


it  to  me,  without  loss  of  time,  by  a  private  hand,  and 
choose  nobody  for  your  messenger  but  a  person  long 
established  in  your  employment,  accustomed  to  travel- 
ling, capable  of  speaking  French  ;  a  man  of  courage,  a 
man  of  honesty,  and,  above  all  things,  a  man  who  can 
be  trusted  to  let  no  stranger  scrape  acquaintance  with 
him  on  the  road.  Tell  no  one — absolutely  no  one — but 
your  messenger  of  the  turn  this  matter  has  now  taken. 
The  safe  transit  of  the  receipt  may  depend  on  your  inter- 
preting literally  the  advice  which  I  give  you  at  the  end 
of  this  letter. 

I  have  only  to  add  that  every  possible  saving  of  time 
is  now  of  the  last  importance.  More  than  one  of  our 
receipt-forms  is  missing — and  it  is  impossible  to  say 
what  new  frauds  may  not  be  committed,  if  we  fail  to 
lay  our  hands  on  the  thief. 

''Your  faithful  servant,  Holland, 

''  (Signing  for  Defresnier  &  Cie.)" 

Who  was  the  suspected  man  ?  In  Vendale's  position, 
it  seemed  useless  to  inquire. 

Who  was  to  be  sent  to  Neuchatel  with  the  receipt  ? 
Men  of  courage  and  men  of  honesty  were  to  be  had  at 
Crippled  Corner  for  the  asking.  But  where  was  the  man 
who  was  accustomed  to  foreign  travelling,  who  could 
speak  the  French  language,  and  who  could  be  really  re- 
lied on  to  let  no  stranger  scrape  acquaintance  with  him 
on  his  route?  There  was  but  one  man  at  hand  who 
combined  all  those  requisites  in  his  own  person,  and 
that  man  was  Vendale  himself. 

It  was  a  sacrifice  to  leave  his  business  ;  it  was  a  great- 
er sacrifice  to  leave  Marguerite.  But  a  matter  of  five 
hundred  pounds  was  involved  in  the  pending  inquiry  ; 
and  a  literal  interpretation  of  M.  Rolland's  advice  was 
insisted  on  in  terms  which  there  was  no  trifling  with. 
The  more  Vandale  thought  of  it,  the  more  plainly  the 
necessity  faced  him,  and  said,  '*  Go  !  " 

As  he  locked  up  the  letter  with  the  receipt,  the  asso- 
ciation of  ideas  reminded  him  of  Obenreizer.  A  guess 
at  the  identity  of  the  suspected  man  looked  more  possi« 
ble  now.    Obenreizer  might  know. 

The  thought  had  barely  passed  through  his  mindj 
when  the  door  opened,  and  Obenreizer  entered  the 
room. 

"They  told  me  at  Soho-square  you  were  expected 
back  last  night,"  said  Vendale,  greeting  him.  **Have 
you  done  v/ell  in  the  country  ?   Are  you  better  ?  " 

A  thousand  thanks.  Obenreizer  had  done  admirably 
well  ;  Obenreizer  was  infinitely  better.  And  now,  what 
news  ?    Any  letter  from  Neucha^tel  ? 

A  very  strange  letter,"  answered  Vendale,  ''The 
matter  has  taken  a  new  turn,  and  the  letter  insists — 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


633 


without  excepting  anybody — on  my  keeping  our  next 
proceedings  a  profound  secret." 

Without  excepting  anybody?  "  repeated Obenreizer. 
As  he  said  the  words,  he  walked  away  again,  thought- 
fully, to  the  window  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  look- 
ed out  for  a  moment,  and  suddenly  came  back  to  Ven- 
dale.  Surely  they  must  have  forgotten?  "  he  resum- 
ed,    or  they  would  have  excepted  met" 

*'It  is  Monsieur  Holland  who  writes,*'  said  Yendale. 

And,  as  you  say,  he  must  certainly  have  forgotten. 
That  view  of  the  matter  quite  escaped  me.  I  was  just 
wishing  I  had  you  to  consult,  when  you  came  into  the 
room.  And  here  I  am  tried  by  a  formal  prohibition, 
which  cannot  possibly  have  been  intended  to  include 
you.    How  very  annoying  1 " 

Obenreizer's  filmy  eyes  were  fixed  on  Yendale  atten- 
tively. 

Perhaps  it  is  more  than  annoying,"  he  said.  **I 
came  this  morning  not  only  to  hear  the  news,  but  to  of- 
fer myself  as  messenger,  negotiator — what  you  will. 
Would  you  believe  it  ?  I  have  letters  which  oblige  me 
to  go  to  Switzerland  immediately.  Messages,  documents, 
anything — I  could  have  taken  all  to  Defresnier  and  Hol- 
land for  you." 

You  are  the  very  man  I  wanted,"  returned  Vendale. 
"  I  had  decided,  most  unwillingly,  on  going  to  Neuch^- 
tel  myself,  not  five  minutes  since,  because  I  could  find 
no  one  here  capable  of  taking  my  place.  Let  me  look  at 
the  letter  again." 

He  opened  the  strong  room  to  get  at  the  letter.  Oben- 
reizer after  first  glancing  round  him  to  make  sure  that 
they  were  alone,  followed  a  step  or  two  and  waited, 
measuring  Yendale  with  his  eye.  Yendale  was  the  tall- 
est man,  and  unmistakably  the  strongest  man  also  of 
the  two.  Obenreizer  turned  away,  and  warmed  himself 
at  the  fire. 

Meanwhile,  Yendale  read  the  last  paragraph  in  the 
letter  for  the  third  time.  There  was  the  plain  warning 
' — there  was  the  closing  sentence,  which  insisted  on  a 
literal  interpretation  of  it.  The  hand,  which  was  lead- 
ing Yendale  in  the  dark,  led  him  on  that  condition  only, 
A  large  um  was  at  stake  :  a  terrible  suspicion  remained 
to  be  verified.  If  he  acted  on  his  own  responsibility, 
and  if  anything  happened  to  defeat  the  object  in  view, 
who  would  be  blamed  ?  As  a  man  of  business,  Yendale 
had  but  one  course  to  follow.  He  locked  the  letter  up 
again. 

"  It  is  most  annoying,"  he  said  to  Obenreizer — "  it  is 
a  piece  of  forgetfulness  on  Monsieur  Rolland's  part 
which  puts  me  to  serious  inconvenience,  and  places  me 
in  an  absurdly  false  position  towards  you.    What  am  I 


684 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  do  ?  I  am  acting  in  a  very  serious  matter  and  acting 
entirely  in  the  dark.  I  have  no  clioice  but  to  be  guided, 
not  by  the  spirit,  but  by  the  letter  of  my  instructions. 
You  understand  me,  I  am  sure  ?  You  know  if  I  ha^ 
not  been  fettered  in  this  way,  how  gladly  I  should  have 
accepted  your  services  ?  " 

Say  no  more!"  returned  Obenreizer.  ''In  your 
place  I  should  have  done  the  same.  My  good  friend,  I 
take  no  offence.  I  thank  you  for  your  compliment.  We 
shall  be  travelling  companions,  at  any  rate,"  added  Oben- 
reizer.      You  go,  as  I  go,  at  once  ? 

'*  At  once.  I  must  speak  to  Marguerite  first,  of 
course  ! " 

Surely  !  surely  !  Speak  to  her  this  evening.  Come, 
and  pick  me  up  on  the  way  to  the  station.  We  go  to- 
gether by  the  mail  train  to-night  !  *' 

It  was  later  than  Vendale  had  anticipated  when  he 
drove  up  to  the  house  in  Soho-square.  Business  diflB- 
culties,  occasioned  by  his  sudden  departure,  had  pre- 
sented themselves  by  dozens.  A  cruelly  large  share  of 
the  time  which  he  had  hoped  to  devote  to  Marguerite 
had  been  claimed  by  duties  at  his  office  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  neglect. 

To  his  surprise  and  delight,  she  was  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room when  he  entered  it. 

"  We  have  only  a  few  minutes,  George,"  she  said. 

But  Madame  Dor  has  been  good  to  me — and  we  can 
have  those  few  minutes  alone."  She  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  whispered  eagerly,  "  Have  you  don^ 
anything  to  offend  Mr.  Obenreizer  ?  " 

''I  I "  exclaimed  Vendale  in  amazement. 

'*  Hush  ?  "  she  said,  I  want  to  whisper  it.  You  know 
the  little  photograph  I  have  got  of  you.  This  afternoon 
it  happened  to  be  on  the  chimney-piece.  He  took  it  up 
and  looked  at  it — and  I  saw  his  face  in  the  glass.  I 
know  you  have  offended  him.  He  is  merciless  ;  he  is  re- 
vengeful ;  he  is  as  secret  as  the  grave.  Don't  go  with 
him,  George — don't  go  with  him  !  " 

My  own  love,"  returned  Vendale,  *'you  are  letting 
your  fancy  frighten  you  !  Obenreizer  and  I  were ; never 
better  friends  than  we  are  at  this  moment." 

Before  a  word  could  be  said,  the  sudden  movement  of 
some  ponderous  body  shook  the  floor  of  the  next  room. 
The  shock  was  followed  by  the  appearance  of  Madame 
Dor.  ''Obenreizer!"  exclaimed  this  excellent  person 
in  a  whisper,  and  plumped  down  instantly  in  her  regular 
place  by  the  stove. 

Obenreizer  came  in  with  a  courier's  bag  strapped  over 
his  shoulder. 

"Are  you  ready?"  he   asked,  addressiaig  Vendale. 


mis(;kIvLani^:()US. 


"Can  I  take  any  thing  for  you  ?  You  have  no  travelling- 
bag.  I  have  got  one.  Here  is  the  compartment  for  pa- 
pers, open  at  your  service." 

Thank  you,"  said  Vendale.  I  have  only  one  paper 
of  importance  with  me  ;  and  that  paper  I  am  bound  to 
take  charge  of  myself.  Here  it  is,"  he  added,  touching 
the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  ''and  here  it  must  remain 
till  we  get  to  Neuchatel." 

As  he  said  those  words,  Marguerite's  hand  caught  his, 
and  pressed  it  significantly.  She  was  looking  towards 
Obenreizer.  Before  Vendale  could  look,  in  his  turn, 
Obenreizer  had  wheeled  round,  and  was  taking  leave  of 
Madame  Dor. 

''Adieu,  my  charming  niece  I "  he  said,  turning  to 
Marguerite  next.  En  route,  my  friend,  for  Neuchatel  !  " 
He  tapped  Vendale  lighly  over  the  breast-pocket  of  his 
coat,  and  led  the  way  to  the  door. 

Vendale's  last  look  was  for  Marguerite.  Marguerite's 
last  words  to  him  were,  "  Don't  go  !  " 


ACT  III. 

In  the  Valley. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  month  of  February 
when  Vendale  and  Obenreizer  set  forth  on  their  expe-  " 
dition.  The  winter  being  a  hard  one,  the  time  was  bad 
for  travellers.  So  bad  was  it  that  these  two  travellers, 
coming  to  Strasbourg,  found  its  great  inns  almost  empty. 
And  even  the  people  they  did  encounter  in  that  city, 
who  had  started  from  England  or  from  Paris  on  busi- 
ness journeys  towards  the  interior  of  Switzerland,  were 
turning  back. 

Many  of  the  railroads  in  Switzerland  that  tourists  pass 
daily  now,  were  almost  or  quite  impracticable  then. 
Some  were  not  begun  ;  more  were  not  completed.  On 
such  as  were  open,  there  were  still  large  gaps  of  old 
road  where  communication  in  the  winter  season  was  of- 
ten stopped  ;  on  others,  there  were  weak  points  where 
the  new  work  was  not  safe,  either  under  conditions  of 
severe  frost,  or  of  rapid  thaw.  The  running  of  trains 
on  this  last  class  was  not  to  be  counted  on  in  the  worst 
time  of  the  year,  was  contingent  upon  the  weather,  or 
was  wholly  abandoned  through  the  months  considered 
the  most  dangerous. 

At  Strasbourg  there  were  more  travellers'  stories  afloat, 
respecting  the  difficulties  of  the  way  further  on,  than 
there  were  travellers  to  relate  them.  Many  of  these 
tales  were  as  wild  as  usual ;  but  the  more  modestly  mar- 


636  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


vellous  did  derive  some  colour  from  the  circumstance 
that  people  were  indisputably  turning  back.  However, 
as  the  road  to  Basle  was  open.  Vend  ale's  resolution  to 
push  on  was  in  no  wise  disturbed.  Obenreizer's  resolu- 
tion was  necessarily  Vendale's,  seeing  that  he  stood  at 
bay  thus  desperately  :  He  must  be  ruined,  or  must  de- 
stroy Vendale  with  it. 

The  state  of  mind  of  each  of  these  two  fellow-travel- 
iers  towards  the  other  was  this.  Obenreizer,  encir- 
cled by  impending  ruin  through  Vendale's  quickness  of 
action,  and  seeing  the  circle  narrowed  every  hour  by 
Vendale's  energy,  hated  him  with  the  animosity  of  a 
fierce,  cunning  lower  animal.  He  had  always  had  in- 
stinctive  movements  in  his  breast  against  him  ;  perhaps, 
because  of  that  old  sore  of  gentleman  and  peasant  ;  per- 
haps, because  of  the  openness  of*  his  nature  ;  perhaps, 
because  of  his  better  looks  ;  perhaps,  because  of  his  suc- 
cess with  Marguerite  ;  perhaps,  on  all  those  grounds,  the 
last  two  not  the  least.  And  now  he  saw  in  him,  besides, 
the  hunter  who  was  tracking  him  down.  Vendale,  on 
the  other  hand,  always  contending  generously  against  his 
first  vague  mistrust,  now  felt  bou^d  to  contend  against 
it  more  than  ever  :  reminding  himself,  "He  is  Margue- 
rite's guardian.  We  are  on  perfectly  friendly  terms  ;  he 
is  my  companion  of  his  own  proposal,  and  can  have  no 
interested  motive  in  sharing  this  undesirable  journey  of 
more  than  twice  the  average  duration. 

They  had  had  a  late  dinner,  and  were  alone  in  an  inn 
room  there,  overhanging  the  Rhine  :  at  that  place  rapid 
and  deep,  sv/ollen  and  loud.  Vendale  lounged  upon -a 
couch,  and  Obenreizer  walked  to  and  fro  :  now,  stop- 
ping at  the  crooked  reflections  of  the  town  lights  in  the 
dark  water  (and  perad venture  thinking,  If  I  could  fling 
him  into  it ! "),  now,  resuming  his  walk  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  floor. 

Where  shall  I  rob  him,  if  I  can?  Where  shall  I 
murder  him,  if  I  must  So,  as  he  paced  the  room,  ran 
the  river,  ran  the  river,  ran  the  river. 

The  burden  seemed  to  him,  at  last,  to  be  growing  so 
plain  that  he  stopped  ;  thinking  it  was  as  well  to  sug- 
gest another  burden  to  his  companion. 

**The  Rhine  sounds  to-night,''  he  said  with  a  smile, 
**like  the  old  waterfall  at  home.  That  waterfall  which 
my  mother  showed  to  travellers  (I  told  you  of  it  at  once). 
The  sound  of  it  changed  with  the  weather,  as  does  the 
sound  of  al'l  falling  waters  and  flowing  waters.  When 
I  was  pupil  of  the  watchmaker,  I  remembered  it  as  some- 
times saying  to  me  for  whole  days,  *  Who  are  you,  my 
little  wretch  ?  Who  are  you,  my  little  wretch  ?  '  I  re- 
membered it  as  saying,  other  times,  when  its  sound  was 
hollow,  and  a  storm  was  coming  up  the  Pass  :  '  Boom, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


637 


boom,  boom.  Beat  him,  beat  him,  beat  him.'  Like  mj 
mother  enraged — if  she  was  my  mother.'* 

If  she  was  ?  said  Vendale,  gradually  changiDg  his 
attitude  to  a  sitting  one.  "  If  she  was  ?  "  Why  do  you 
say  Mf  ?  "' 

What  do  I  know?"  replied  the  other  negligently, 
throwing  up  his  hands  and  letting  them  fall  as  they 
would.  What  would  you  have?  I  am  so  obscurely 
born,  that  how  can  I  say?  I  was  very  young,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  family  were  men  and  women,  and  my  so- 
called  parents  were  old.  Anything  is  possible  of  a  case 
like  that." 

Did  you  ever  doubt — ?  " 

I  told  you  once,  I  doubt  the  marriage  of  those  two," 
he  replied,  throwing  up  his  hands  again,  as  if  he  were 
throwing  the  unprofitable  subject  away.  *'But  here  I 
am  in  Creation,  /come  of  no  fine  family.  What  does 
it  matter  ?  " 

At  least  you  are  Swiss,"  said  Vendale,  after  follow- 
ing him  with  his  eyes  to  and  fro. 

How  do  I  know?"  he  retorted  abruptly,* and  stop- 
ping to  look  back  over  his  shoulder.    "  I  say  to  you,  at 
least  you  are  English.    How  do  you  know  ?  " 
"  By  what  I  have  been  told  from  infancy." 

Ah  !    I  know  of  myself  that  way." 

And,"  added  Vendale,  pursuing  the  thought  that  he 
could  not  drive  back,     by  my  earliest  recollections." 

I  also.  I  know  of  myself  that  way — if  that  way 
satisfies." 

Does  it  not  satisfy  you  ?  " 
*'It  must.    There  is  nothing  like  *  it  must'  in  this 
little  world.    It  must.    Two  short  words  those,  but 
stronger  than  long  proof  or  reasoning." 

"  You  and  poor  Wilding  were  born  in  the  same  year. 
You  were  nearly  of  an  age,"  said  Vendale,  again  thought- 
fully looking  after  him  as  he  resumed  his  pacing  up  and 
down. 

"Yes.    Very  nearly." 

Could  Obenreizer  be  the  missing  man?  In  the  un^ 
known  associations  of  things,  was  ther©  a  subtler  mean- 
ing than  he  himself  thought,  in  that  theory  so  often  on 
his  lips  about  the  smallness  of  the  world.  Had  the  SwisE 
letter  presenting  him  followed  so  close  on  Mrs.  Gold- 
straw's  revelation  concerning  the  infant  who  had  been 
taken  away  to  Switzerland,  t)ecause  he  was  tbat  infant 
grown  a  man  ?  In  a  world  where  so  many  depths  lie  un- 
sounded, it  might  be.  The  chancer,  or  the  laws— call 
them  either — that  had  wrought  out  the  revival  of  Ven- 
dale's  own  acquaintance  with  Obenreizer,  and  had  rip- 
ened it  into  intimacy,  and  had  brought  them  here  to- 
gether this  present  winter  night,  were  hardly  less  curious; 


6B8 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


while  read  by  such  a  light,  they  were  seen  to  cohere 
towards  the  furtherance  of  a  continuous  and  an  intelli- 
gible purpose. 

Vendale's  awakened  thoughts  ran  high  while  his  eyes 
musingly  followed  Obenreizer  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room,  the  river  ever  running  to  the  tune  :  Where  shall 
I  rob  him,  if  1  can  ?  Where  shall  I  murder  him,  if  I 
must  ?  "  The  secret  of  his  dead  friend  was  in  no  hazard 
from  Vendale's  lips  ;  but  just  as  his  friend  had  died  of 
its  weight,  so  did  he  in  his  lighter  succession  feel  the 
burden  of  the  trust,  and  the  obligation  to  follow  any 
clue,  however  obscure.  He  rapidly  asked  himself,  would 
he  like  this  man  to  be  the  real  Wilding?  No.  Argue 
down  his  mistrust  as  he  might,  he  was  unwilling  to  put 
such  a  substitute  in  the  place  of  his  late  guileless,  out- 
spoken, childlike  partner.  He  rapidly  asked  himself, 
would  he  like  this  man  to  be  rich  ?  No.  He  had  more 
power  than  enough  over  Marguerite  as  it  was,  and  wealth 
might  invest  him  with  more.  Would  he  like  this  man 
to  be  Marguerite's  guardian,  and  yet  proved  to  stand  in 
no  degree  of  relationship  towards  her,  however  discon- 
nected, and  distant?  No.  But  these  were  not  considera- 
tions to  come  between  him  and  fidelity  to  the  dead.  Let 
him  see  to  it  that  they  passed  him  with  no  other  notice 
than  the  knowledge  that  they  had  passed  him,  and  left 
him  bent  on  the  discharge  of  a  solemn  duty.  And  he 
did  see  to  it,  so  soon  that  he  followed  his  companion 
wil;h  ungrudging  eyes,  while  he  still  paced  the  room  ; 
that  companion,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  moodily  reflect- 
ing on  his  own  birth,  and  not  on  another  man's — least  of 
all  what  man's — violent  death. 

The  road  in  advance  from  Basle  to  Neuchatel  was  bet- 
ter than  had  been  represented.  The  latest  weather  had 
done  it  good.  Drivers,  both  of  horses  and  mules,  had 
come  in  that  evening  after  dark,  and  had  reported  noth- 
ing more  difficult  to  be  overcome  than  trials  of  patience, 
harness,  wheels,  axles,  and  whipcord.  A  bargain  was 
soon  struck  for  a  carriage  and  horses,  to  take  them  on  in 
the  morning,  and  to  start  before  daylight. 

'*Do  you  lock  your  door  at  night  when  travelling?"' 
asked  Obenreizer,  standing  warming  his  hands  by  the 
wood-fire  in  Vendale's  chamber,  before  going  to  his 
own. 

Not  I.   I  sleep  too  soundly." 

You  are  so  sound  a  sleeper?"  he  retorted,  with  an 
admiring  look.      What  a  blessing  ! " 

Anything  but  a  blessing  to  the  rest  of  the  house," 
rejoined  Vendale,  "if  I  had  to  be  knocked  up  in  the 
morning  from  the  outside  of  my  bedroom  door," 

I,  too,"  said  Obenreizer,  "  leave  open  my  room.  But 
let  me  advise  you,  as  a  Swiss  who  knows  :  always,  when 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


639 


you  travel  in  my  country,  put  your  papers — and,  of 
course,  your  money — under  your  pillow.  Always  the 
same  place." 

*'You  are  not  complimentary  to  your  countrymen," 
laughed  Vendale. 

*'My  countrymen,"  said  Obenreizer,  with  that  light 
touch  of  his  friend's  elbows  by  way  of  good  night  and 
benediction,  I  suppose,  are  like  the  majority  of  men. 
And  the  majority  of  men  will  take  what  they  can  get. 
Adieu  !    At  four  in  the  morning." 

''Adieu  I   At  four." 

Left  to  himself,  Vendale  raked  the  logs  together, 
sprinkled  over  them  the  white  wood-ashes  lying  on  the 
hearth,  and  sat  down  to  compose  his  thoughts.  But  they 
still  ran  high  on  their  latest  theme,  and  the  running  of 
the  river  tended  to  agitate  rather  than  to  quiet  them. 
As  he  sat  thinking,  what  little  disposition  he  had  had  to 
sleep  departed.  He  felt  it  hopeless  to  lie  down  yet,  and 
sat  dressed  by  the  fire.  Marguerite,  Wilding,  Oben- 
reizer, the  business  he  was  then  upon,  and  a  thousand 
hopes  and  doubts  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  occu- 
pied his  mind  at  once.  Everything  seemed  to  have  pow- 
er over  him  but  slumber.  The  departed  disposition  to 
sleep  kept  far  away. 

He  had  sat  for  a  long  time  thinking,  on  the  hearth, 
when  his  candle  burned  down  and  ifs  light  went  out.  It 
was  of  little  moment ;  there  was  light  enough  in  the  fire. 
He  changed  his  attitude,  and,  leaning  his  arm  on  the 
chair-back,  and  his  chin  upon  that  hand,  sat  thinking 
still. 

But  he  sat  between  the  fire  and  the  bed,  as  the  fire 
flickered  in  the  play  of  air  from  the  fast-flowing  river, 
his  enlarged  shadow  fluttered  on  the  white  wall  by  the 
bedside.  His  attitude  gave  it  an  air,  half  of  mourning 
and  half  of  bending  over  the  bed  imploring.  His  eyes 
were  observant  of  it,  when  he  became  troubled  by  the 
disagreeable  fancy  that  it  was  like  Wilding's  shadow, 
and  not  his  own. 

A  slight  change  of  place  would  cause  it  to  disappear. 
He  made  the  change,  and  the  apparition  of  his  disturbed 
fancy  vanished.  He  now  sat  in  the  shade  of  a  little 
nook  beside  the  fire,  and  the  door  of  the  room  was  before 
him. 

It  was  a  long,  cumbrous  iron  latch.  He  saw  the  latch 
slowly  and  softly  rise.  The  door  opened  a  very  little, 
and  came  to  again,  as  though  only  the  air  had  moved  it. 
But  he  saw  that  the  latch  was  out  of  the  hasp. 

The  door  opened  again  very  slowly,  until  it  opened 
wide  enough  to  admit  some  one.  It  afterwards  remained 
still  for  a  while,  as  though  cautiously  held  open  on  the 
Other  side.    The  figure  of  a  man  then  entered,  with  his 


640 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


face  turned  towards  the  bed,  and  stood  quiet  just  within 
the  door.  Uutil  it  said,  in  a  low  half -whisper,  at  the 
same  time  taking  one  step  forward  :  * '  Vendale  ! " 

What  now  ?  "  he  answered,  springing  from  his  seat ; 
who  is  it  ?"  . 

It  was  Obenreizer,  and  he  uttered  a  cry  of  surprise  as 
Vendale  came  upon  him  from  that  unexpected  direction. 
"  Not  in  bed  he  said,  catching  him  by  both  shoulders 
with  an  instinctive  tendency  to  a  struggle,  then  some- 
thing is  wrong  } " 

What  do  you  mean?"  said  Vendale,  releasing  him^ 

self. 

First  tell  me  ;  you  are  not  ill  ?  " 
''111?  No." 

I  have  had  a  bad  dream  about  you.  How  is  it  that 
I  see  you  up  and  dressed  ?" 

*<My  good  fellow,  I  may  as  well  ask  you  how  it  is  that 
I  see  you  up  and  undressed  ?  " 

I  have  told  you  why.  I  have  had  a  bad  dream  about 
you.  I  tried  to  rest  after  it,  but  it  was  impossible.  I 
could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  stay  where  I  was  without 
knowing  you  were  safe  ;  and  yet  I  could  not  make  up 
my  mind  to  come  in  here.  I  have  been  minutes  hesitating 
at  the  door.  It  is  so  easy  to  laugh  at  a  dream  you  have 
not  dreamed.    Where  is  your  candle  ?  " 

Burnt  out." 

*'  I  have  a  whole  one  in  my  room.    Shall  I  fetch  it  ? 
''Do  so.'' 

His  room  was  very  near,  and  he  was  absent  for  but  a 
few  seconds.  Coming  back  with  the  candle  in  his  hand, 
he  kneeled  down  on  the  hearth  and  lighted  it.  As  he 
blew  with  his  breath  a  charred  billet  into  flame  for  the 
purpose,  Vendale,  looking  down  at  him,  saw  that  his 
lips  were  white,  and  not  easy  of  control. 

"Yes?"  said  Obenreizer,  setting  the  lighted  candle 
the  table.    "  It  was  a  bad  dream.  Only  look  at  me  I  " 

His  feet  were  bare  ;  his  red-flannel  shirt  was  thrown 
back  at  the  throat,  and  his  sleeves  were  rolled  above 
the  elbows  ;  his  only  other  garment,  a  pair  of  under 
pantaloons  or  drawers,  reached  to  the  ankles,  titted  him 
tight  and  close.  A  certain  lithe  and  savage  appearance 
was  on  his  figure,  and  his  eyes  were  very  bright. 

* '  If  there  had  been  a  wrestle  with  a  robber,  as  J 
dreamed,"  said  Obenreizer,  "you  see,  I  was  stripped  foir 
it." 

"  And  armed,  too,"  said  Vendale,  glancing  at  his  girdle. 

"  A  traveller's  dagger,  that  I  always  carry  on  the  road," 
lie  answered  carelessly,  half  drawing  it  from  its  sheath 
with  his  left  hand,  and  putting  it  back  again.  "Do 
you  carry  no  such  thing  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind." 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


641 


No  pistols  ?  "  said  Obenreizer,  glancing  at  the  table, 
and  from  it  to  the  untouched  pillow. 
"  Nothing  of  the  sort." 

*'You  Englishmen  are  so  confident!  You  wish  to 
sleep?" 

I  have  wished  to  sleep  this  long  time,  but  I  can't  do 

it." 

"I  neither,  after  the  bad  dream.  My  fire  has  gone 
the  way  of  you  candle.  May  I  come  and  sit  by  yours  ? 
Two  o'clock  !  It  will  soon  be  four,  that  is  not  worth 
the  trouble  to  go  to  bed  again." 

I  shall  not  take  the  trouble  to  go  to  bed  at  all,  now," 
said  Vendale  :  ''sit  here  and  keep  me  company,  and 
welcome." 

Going  back  to  his  room  to  arrange  his  dress,  Oben- 
reizeT  soon  returned  in  5  loose  cloak  and  slippers,  and 
they  sat  down  on  opposite  sides  of  the  hearth.  In  the 
interval  Vendale  had  replenished  the  fire  from  the  wood- 
basket  in  his  room,  and  Obenreizer  had  put  upon  the 
table  a  flask  and  cup  from  his. 

'*  Common  cabaret  brandy,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said, 
pouring  out ;  ''  bought  upon  the  road,  and  not  like  yours 
from  Cripple  Corner.  But  yours  is  exhausted  ;  so  much 
the  worse.  A  cold  night,  a  cold  time  of  night,  a  cold 
country,  and  a  cold  house.  This  may  be  better  than 
nothing ;  try  it." 

Vendale  took  the  cup,  and  did  so. 
How  do  you  find  it  ?  " 

''It  has  a  coarse  after-flavour,"  said  Vendale,  giving 
back  the  cup  with  a  slight  shudder,  "and  I  don't  like 
it." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Obenreizer,  tasting,  and  smack- 
ing his  lips  ;  "it  has  a  coarse  after-flavour,  and  I  don't 
like  it.  Pooh  !  it  burns,  though  ! "  He  had  flung  what 
remained  in  the  cup  upon  the  fire. 

Each  of  them  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  table,  reclined 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  sat  looking  at  the  flaring 
logs.  Obenreizer  remained  watchful  and  still  ;  but 
Vendale,  after  certain  nervous  twitches  and  starts,  in 
one  of  which  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  looking  wildly  about 
him,  fell  into  the  strangest  confusion  of  dreams.  He 
carried  his  papers  in  a  leather  case  or  pocket-book,  in  an 
inner  breast  pocket  of  his  buttoned  travelling  coat  ;  and 
whatever  he  dreamed  of,  in  the  lethargy  that  got  pos- 
session of  him,  something  importunate  in  these  papers 
called  him  out  of  that  dream,  though  he  could  not  wake 
from  it.  He  was  belated  on  the  steppes  of  Russia  (some 
shadowy  person  gave  that  name  to  the  place)  with  Mar- 
guerite ;  and  yet  the  sensation  of  a  hand  at  his  breast, 
softly  feeling  the  outline  of  the  pocket-book  as  he  lay 
asleep  before  the  fire,  was  present  to  him.  He  was 
UU       '  Vol.  is 


642  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


shipwrecked  in  an  open  boat  at  sea,  and  having  lost 
his  clothes,  had  no  other  covering  than  an  old  sail ;  and 
yet  a  creeping  hand,  tracing  outside  all  the  other  pock- 
ets, of  the  dress  he  actually  wore,  for  papers,  and  finding 
none  answer  its  touch,  warned  him  to  rouse  himself. 
He  was  in  the  ancient  vault  at  Cripple  Corner,  to  which 
was  transferred  the  very  bed  substantial  and  present  in 
that  very  room  at  Basle  ;  and  Wilding  (not  dead,  as  he 
had  supposed,  and  yet  he  did  not  wonder  much)  shook 
him  and  whispered,  Look  at  that  man  !  Don't  you  see 
he  has  risen,  and  is  turning  the  pillow  ?  Why  should  he 
turn  the  pillow,  if  not  to  seek  those  papers  that  are  in 
your  breast  ?  Awake  !  "  And  yet  he  slept,  and  wander- 
ed olf  into  other  dreams. 

Watchful  and  still,  with  his  elbow  on  the  table  and 
his  head  upon  that  hand,  his  companion  at  length,  said  : 

Vend  ale  !  We  are  called.  Past  Four  I Then  open- 
ing his  eyes,  he  saw,  turned  sideways  on  him,  the  filmy 
face  of  Obenreizer. 

*'You  have  been  in  a  heavy  sleep,"  he  said.  ''The 
fatigue  of  constant  travelling  and  the  cold  !  " 

I  am  broad  awake  now,''  cried  Vendale,  springing 
up,  but  with  an  unsteady  footing.  Haven't  you  slept 
at  all  ?  " 

"  I  may  have  dozed,  but  I  seem  to  have  been  patiently 
looking  at  the  fire.  Whether  or  no,  we  must  wash, 
and  breakfast,  and  turn  out.  Past  four,  Vendale  ;  past 
■four!" 

It  was  said  in  a  tone  to  rouse  him,  for  already  he  was 
half  asleep  again.  In  his  preparation  for  the  day,  too, 
and  at  his  breakfast,  he  was  often  virtually  asleep  while 
in  mechanical  action.  It  was  not  until  the  cold,  dark 
day  was  closing  in,  that  he  had  any  distincter  impres- 
sions of  the  ride  than  jingling  bells,  bitter  weather, 
slipping  horses,  frowning  hill-sides,  bleak  woods,  and  a 
stoppage  at  some  wayside  houses  of  entertainment, 
where  there  had  passed  through  a  cowhouse  to  reach  the 
travellers*  room  obove.  He  had  been  conscious  of  little 
more,  except  of  Obenreizer  sitting  thoughtful  at  his  side 
all  day,  and  eyeing  him  much. 

But  when  he  shook  off  his  stupor,  Obenreizer  was  not 
at  his  side.  The  carriage  was  stopping  to  bait  at  another 
wayside  house  ;  and  a  line  of  long  narrow  carts,  laden 
with  casks  of  wine,  and  drawn  by  horses  with  a  quantity 
of  blue  collar  and  head:gear,  were  baiting  too.  These 
came  from  the  direction  in  which  the  travellers  were 
going,  and  Obenreizer  (not  thoughtful  new,  but  cheerful 
and  alert)  was  talking  with  the  foremost  driver.  As 
Vendale  stretched  his  limbs,  circulated  his  blood,  and 
cleared  olf  the  lees,  of  his  lethargy,  whith  a  sharp  run 
to  and  fro  in  the  bracing  air,  the  line  of  carts  Ha«ve(i 


MTSCRLLANF.OITS. 


643 


on  :  the  drivers  all  saluting  Obenreizer  as  they  passed 
him. 

Who  are  those?    asked  Vendale. 
These  are  our  carriers — Defresnier  and  Con^pany's," 
replied  Obenreizer.    "Those  are  our  casks  of  wine." 
He  was  singing  to  himself,  and  lighting  a  cigar. 

***  I  have  been  drearily  dull  company  to-day/*  said 
Vendale.  I  don-t  know  what  has  been  the  matter  with 
me.'* 

**you  had  no  sleep  last  night  ;  and  a  kind  ol  brain- 
congession  frequently  comes,  at  first,  of  such  cold,"  said 
Obenreizer.       I  have  seen  it  often.    After  all,  we  shall 
have  our  journey  for  nothing,  it  seems." 
How  for  nothing  ?  " 

The  House  is  at  Milan.  You  know,  we  are  a  Wine 
House  at  Neuchatel,  and  a  silk  House  at  Milan?  Well, 
Silk  happening  to  press  of  a  sudden,  more  than  Wine, 
Defresnier  was  summoned  to  Milan.  Rolland,  the  other 
partner,  has  been  taken  ill  since  his  departure,  and  the 
doctors  will  allow  him  to  see  no  one.  A  letters  awaits 
you  at  Neuchatel  to  tell  you  so.  I  have  it  from  our 
chief  carrier  whom  you  saw  me  talking  with.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  me,  and  said  he  had  that  word  for  you 
if  he  met  you.    What  do  you  do  ?   Go  back  ?  " 

*'Go  on,"  said  Vendale. 

"On?" 

" On?   Yes.    Across  the  Alps,  and  down  to  Milan." 

Obenreizer  stopped  in  his  smoking  to  look  at  Vendale 
and  then  smoked  heavily,  looked  up  the  road,  looked 
down  the  road,  looked  down  at  the  stones  in  the  road  at 
his  feet. 

"I  have  a  very  serious  matter  in  charge,'*  said  Ven- 
dale ;  **more  of  these  missing  forms  may  be  turned  to 
as  bad  account,  or  worse  ;  I  am  urged  to  lose  no  time  in 
helping  the  House  to  take  the  thief  ;  and  nothing  shall 
turn  me  back." 

"No?"  cried  Obenreizer,  taking  out  his  cigar  to  smile, 
and  giving  his  hand  to  his  fellow-traveller.  "  Then 
nothing  shall  turn  me  back.  Ho,  driver !  Despatch, 
Quick  there  !    Let  us  push  on  !  " 

They  travelled  through  the  night.  There  had  been 
snow,  and  there  was  a  partial  thaw,  and  they  mostly 
travelled  at  a  foot-pace,  and  always  with  many  stoppages 
to  breathe  the  splashed  and  floundering  horses.  After 
an  hour's  broad  day-light,  they  drew  rein  at  the  inn- 
door  at  Neuchatel,  having  been  some  eight-and- twenty 
hours  in  conquering  some  eighty  English  miles. 

When  they  had  hurriedly  refreshed  and  changed,  they 
went  together  to  the  house  of  business  of  Defresnier  and 
Company.  There  they  found  the  letter  which  the  wine- 
carrier  had  described,  enclosing  the  tests  and  compari- 


644  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

sons  of  hand-writing  essential  to  the  discovery  of  th^ 
Forger.  Vendale's  determination  to  press  forward,  with- 
out resting,  being  already  taken,  tjbie  only  question  to 
delay  them  was  by  what  Pass  could  they  cross  the  Alps  ? 
Respecting  the  state  of  the  two  Passes  of  the  St.  Got- 
thard  and  the  Simplon,  the  guides  and  mule-drivers 
differed  greatly  ;  and  both  passes  were  still  far  enough 
off,  to  prevent  the  travellers  from  having  the  benefit  of 
any  recent  experience  of  either.  Besides  which,  they 
well  knew  that  a  fall  of  snow  might  altogether  change 
the  described  conditions  in  a  single  hour,  even  if  they 
were  correctly  stated.  But,  on  the  whole,  the  Simplon 
appearing  to  be  the  more  hopeful  route,  Vendale  decided 
to  take  it.  Obenreizer  bore  little  or  no  part  in  the  dis- 
cussion, and  scarcely  spoke. 

To  Geneva,  to  Lausanne,  along  the  level  margin  of 
the  lake  to  Vevay,  so  into  the  winding  valley  between 
the  spurs  of  the  mountains,  and  into  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone.  The  sound  of  the  carriage-wheels,  as  they 
rattled  on,  through  the  day,  through  the  night,  became 
as  the  wheels  of  a  great  clock,  recording  the  hours.  No 
change  of  weather  varied  the  journey,  after  it  had 
hardened  into  a  sullen  frost.  In  a  sombre-yellow  sky, 
they  saw  the  Alpine  ranges  ;  and  they  saw  enough  of 
snow  on  nearer  and  much  lower  hill-tops  and  hill-sides, 
to  sully,  by  contrast,  the  purity  of  lake,  torrent,  and 
waterfall,  and  make  the  villages  look  discoloured  and 
dirty.  But  no  snow  fell,  nor  was  there  any  snow-drift 
oil  the  rOad.  The  stalking  along  the  valley  of  more  or 
less  of  white  mist,  changing  on  their  hair  and  dress  into 
icicles,  was  the  only  variety  between  them  and  the 
gloomy  sky.  And  still  by  day,  and  still  by  night, 
the  wheels.  And  still  they  rolled,  in  the  hearing  of  one 
of  them,  to  the  burden,  altered  from  the  burden  of  the 
Rhine  :  The  time  is  gone  for  robbing  him  alive,  and  J 
must  murder  him." 

They  came  at  length,  to  the  poor  little  town  of  Brieg, 
at  the  foot  of  the  Simplon.  They  came  there  after  dark, 
but  yet  could  see  how  dwarfed  men's  works  and  men  be= 
came  with  the  immense  mountains  towering  over  them. 
Here  they  must  lie  for  the  night ;  and  here  was  warmth 
of  fire,  and  lamp,  and  dinner,  and  wine,  and  after  con- 
ference,  resounding  with  guides  and  drivers.  No  human 
creature  had  came  across  the  Pass  for  four  days.  There 
snow  above  the  snow-line  was  too  hard  for  wheeled  car- 
riage, and  not  hard  enough  for  sledge.  There  was  snow 
in  the  sky.  There  had  been  snow  in  the  sky  for  days 
past,  and  the  marvel  was  that  it  had  not  fallen,  and  the 
certainty  was  that  it  must  fall.  No  vehicle  could  cross. 
The  journey  might  be  tried  on  mules,  or  it  might  be  tried 
on  foot ;  but  the  best  guides  must  be  paid  danger-price 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


645 


In  either  case,  and  that,  too,  whether  they  succeeded  in 
taking  the  two  travellers  across,  or  turned  for  safety  and 
brought  them  back. 

In  this  discussion,  Obenreizer  bore  no  part  whatever. 
He  sat  silently  smoking  by  the  fire  ui^til  the  room  was 
cleared  and  Vendale  referred  to  him. 

"  Bah  !  I  am  weary  of  these  poor  devils  and  their 
trade,"  he  said  in  reply.  Always  the  same  story.  It  is 
the  story  of  their  trade  to-day,  as  it  was  the  story  of  their 
trade  when  1  was  a  ragged  boy.  What  do  you  and  I 
want  ?  We  want  a  knapsack  each,  and  a  mountain-staff 
each.  We  want  no  guide  ;  we  should  guide  him  ;  he 
would  not  guide  us.  We  leave  our  portmanteaus  here, 
and  we  cross  together.  We  have  been  on  the  mountains 
together  before  now,  and-  I  am  mountain-born,  and  I 
know  this  Pass — Pass  ! — rather  High  Road  ! — by  heart. 
We  will  leave  these  poor  devils,  in  pity,  to  trade  with 
others  ;  but  they  must  not  delay  us  to  make  a  pretence 
of  earning  money.    Which  is  all  they  mean." 

Vendale,  glad  to  be  quit  of  the  dispute,  and  to  cut  the 
knot,  active,  adventurous,  bent  on  getting  forward,  and 
therefore  very  susceptible  to  the^last  hint;  readily  as- 
sented. Within  two  hours  they  had  purchased  what 
they  wanted  for  the  expedition,  had  packed  their  knap- 
sacks, and  lay  down  to  sleep. 

At  break  of  day,  they  found  half  the  town  collected 
in  the  narrow  street  to  see  them  depart.-  The  people 
talked  together  in  groups  ;  the  guides  and  drivers  whis- 
pered apart,  and  looked  up  at  the  sky  ;  no  one  wished 
them  a  good  journey. 

As  they  began  the  ascent,  a  gleam  of  sun  shone  from 
the  otherwise  unaltered  sky,  and  for  a  moment  turned 
the  tin  spires  of  the  town  to  silver. 

A  good  omen  !"  said  Vendale  (though  it  died  out 
while  he  spoke).  Perhaps  our  example  will  open  the 
Pass  on  this  side. " 

No  ;  we  shall  not  be  followed,"  returned  Obenreizer, 
looking  up  at  the  sky  and  back  at  the  valley.  *  *  We 
shall  be  alone  up  yonder.'' 

On  the  Mountain. 

The  road  was  fair  enough  for  stout  walkers,  and  thz 
air  orrew  lig^hter  and  easier  to  breathe  as  the  two  as= 
cended.  But  the  settled  gloom  remained  as  it  had 
remained  for  days  back.  Nature  seemed  to  have  come 
to  a  pause.  The  sense  of  hearing,  no  less  than  the  senst 
of  sight,  was  troubled  by  having  to  wait  so  long  for  the 
change,  whatever  it  might  be,  that  impended.  The 
silence  was  as  palpable  and  heavy  as  the  lowering 
clouds — or  rather  cloud,  for  there  seemed  to  be  but  one 
in  all  the  sky,  and  that  one  covering  the  whole  of  it. 


646  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Although  the  light  was  thus  dismally  shrouded,  the 
prospect  was  not  obscured.  Down  in  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone  behind  them,  the  stream  could  be  traced  through 
all  its  many  windings,  oppressively  solemn  and  sombre 
in  its  one  leaden  hue,  a  colourless  waste.  Far  and  high 
above  them,  glaciers  and  suspended  avalanches  over- 
hung the  spots  where  they  must  pass,  by  and  by  ;  deep 
and  dark  below  them  on  their  right,  were  awful  preci- 
pice and  roariug  torrent ;  tremendous  mountains  arose 
in  every  vista.  The  gigantic  landscape,  uncheered  by  a 
touch  of  changing  light  or  a  solitary  ray  of  sun,  was  yet 
terribly  distinct  in  its  ferocity.  The  hearts  of  two  lonely 
men  might  shrink  a  little,  if  they  had  to  win  their  way 
for  many  miles  and  hours  among  a  legion  of  silent  and 
motionless  men — more  men  like  themselves — all  looking 
at  them  with  fixed  and  frowning  front.  But  how  much 
more,  when  the  legion  is  of  Nature's  mightiest  works, 
and  the  frown  may  turn  to  fury  in  an  instant ! 

As  they  ascended,  the  road  became  gradually  more 
rugged  and  difficult.  But  the  spirits  of  Vendale  rose  as 
they  mounted  higher,  leaving  so  much  more  of  the  road 
behind  them  conquered.  Obenreizer  spoke  little,  and 
held  on  with  a  determined  purpose.  Both,  in  respect  of 
agility  and  endurance,  were  well  qualified  for  the  expe- 
dition. Whatever  the  born  mountaineer  read  in  the 
weather-tokens  that  was  illegible  to  the  other,  he  kept 
to  himself. 

Shall  we  get  across  to-day  ?  "asked  Vendale. 

No  replied  the  other.  You  see  how  much  deeper 
the  snow  lies  here  than  it  lay  half  a  league  lower.  The 
higher  we  mount,  the  deeper  the  snow  will  lie.  Walking 
is  half  wading  even  now.  And  the  days  are  so  short  I 
If  we  get  as  high  as  the  fifth  Refuge,  and  lie  to-night  at 
the  Hospice,  we  shall  do  well." 

Is  there  no  danger  of  the  weather  rising  in  the 
night,"  asked  Vendale,  anxiously,  *'and  snowing  us 
up?" 

There  is  danger  enough  about  us,"  said  Obenreizer, 
with  a  cautious  glance  onward  and  upward,  "  to  render 
silence  our  best  policy.  You  have  heard  of  the  Bridge 
of  the  Ganther  ?  " 

I  have  crossed  it  once." 

In  the  summer  ?  " 

Yes  ;  in  the  travelling  season." 
"  Yes  ;  but  it  is  another  J^hing  at  this  season  ; "  with  a 
sneer,  as  though  he  were  out  of  temper.    * '  This  is  not  a 
time  of  year  or  a  state  of  things,  on  an  Alpine  Pass,  that 
you  gentlemen  holiday-travellers  know  much  about." 

You  are  my  Guide,"  said  Vendale,  good-liumouredly. 
**  I  trust  to  you." 

I  am  your  Guide,"  Raid  Obenreizer,  "and  I  will 


MiyCELLANEOUS. 


647 


guide  you  to  your  journey's  end.  There  is  the  Bridge 
before  us." 

They  had  made  a  turn  into  a  desolate  and  dismal 
ravine,  where  the  snow  lay  deep  below  them,  deep  above 
them,  deep  on  every  side.  While  speaking,  Obenreizer 
stood  pointing  at  the  Bridge,  observing  Vendale's  face, 
with  a  very  singular  expression  on  his  own. 

If  I,  as  Guide,  had  sent  you  over  there,  in  advance, 
and  encouraged  you  to  give  a  shout  or  two,  you  might 
have  brought  down  upon  yourself  tons  and  tons  and  tons 
of  snow,  that  would  not  only  have  struck  you  dead,  but 
buried  you  deep,  at  a  blow." 
No  doubt,"  said  Vendale. 

"  No  doubt.  But  that  is  not  what  I  have  io  do,  as 
Guide.  So  pass  silently.  Or,  going  as  we  go,  our  indis- 
cretion might  else  crush  and  bury  me.    Let  us  get  on  1  " 

There  was  a  great  accumulation  of  snow  on  the 
Bridge ;  and  under  such  enormous  accumulations  of 
sno'w* overhung  them  from  projecting  masses  of  rock, 
that  they  might  have  been  making  their  way  through  a 
stormy  sky  of  white  clouds.  Using  his  staff  skilfully, 
sounding  as  he  went,  and  looking  upward,  with  bent 
shoulders  as  if  it  were  to  resist  the  mere  idea  of  a  fall 
from  above,  Obenreizer  softly  led.  Vendale  closely  fol- 
lowed. They  were  yet  in  the  midst  of  their  dangerous 
way,  when  there  came  a  mighty  rush,  followed  by  a 
sound  as  of  thunder.  Obenreizer  clapped  his  hand  on 
Vendale's  mouth  and  pointed  to  the  track  behind  them. 
Its  aspect  had  been  wholly  changed  in  a  moment.  An 
avalanche  had  swept  over  it,  and  plunged  into  the  tor- 
rent at  the  bottom  of  the  gulf  below. 

Their  appearance  at  the  solitary  Inn  not  far  beyond 
this  terrible  Bridge,  elicited  many  expressions  of  aston- 
ishment from  the  people  shut  up  in  the  house.  We 
stay  to  rest, "  Said  Obenreizer,  shaking  the  snow  from 
his  dress  at  the  fire.  This  gentleman  has  very  pres- 
sing occasion  to  get  across  ;  tell  them,  Vendale/' 

Assuredly,  1  have  very  pressing  occasion.  I  must 
cross. " 

You  hear,  all  of  you.  My  friend  has  very  pressing 
occasion  to  get  across,  and  we  want  no  advice  and  no 
help.  I  am  as  good  a  Guide,  my  fellow-countrymen,  as 
any  of  you.    Now,  give  us  to  eat  and  drink." 

In  exactly  the  same  way,  and  in  nearly  the  same  words, 
when  it  was  coming  on  dark  and  they  had  struggled 
through  the  greatly  increased  difficulties  of  the  road,  and 
had  at  last  reached  their  destination  for  the  night, 
Obenreizer  said  to  the  astonished  people  of  the  Hospice, 
gathering  about  them  at  the  fire,  while  they  were  yet  in 
the  act  of  getting  their  wet  shoes  off,  and  shaking  the 
enow  from  their  clothes  : 


648 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


'*It  is  well  to  understand  one  another,  friends  all. 
This  gentleman — " 

— Has,"  said  Vendale,  readily  taking  him  up  with  a 
smile,    very  pressing  occasion  to  get  across.  Must  cross." 

You  hear? — has  very  pressing  occasion  to  get  across, 
must  cross.  We  want  no  advice  and  no  help.  I  am 
mountain-born,  and  act  as  Guide.  Do  not  worry  us  by 
talking  about  it,  but  let  us  have  supper,  and  wine,  and 
bed.'' 

All  through  the  intense  cold  of  the  night,  the  same 
awful  stillness.  Again  at  sunrise,  no  sunny  tinge  to  gild 
or  redden  the  snow.  The  same  interminable  waste  of 
deathly  white  ;  and  same  immovable  air  ;  the  same  mo- 
notonous gloom  in  the  sky. 

Travellers  j '*  a  friendly  voice  called  to  them  from 
the  door,  after  they  were  afoot,  knapsack  on  back  and 
staff  in  hand,  as  yesterday  ;  recollect  !  There  are  five 
places  of  shelter,  near  together,  on  the  dangerous  road 
before  you  ;  and  there  is  the  wooden  cross,  and  th#re  is 
the  next  Hospice.  Do  not  stray  from  the  track.  If  the 
Tourmente  comes  on,  take  shelter  instantly  !  " 

"  The  trade  of  these  poor  devils  !  "  said  Obenreizer  to 
his  friend,  with  a  contemptuous  backward  wave  of  his 
hand  towards  the  voice.  How  they  stick  to  their  trade  I 
You  Englishmen  say  we  Swiss  are  mercenary.  Truly,  it 
does  look  like  it." 

They  had  divided  between  the  two  knapsacks  such  re- 
freshments as  they  had  been  able  to  obtain  that  morn- 
ing, and  as  they  deemed  it  prudent  to  take.  Obenreizer 
carried  the  wine  as  his  share  of  the  burden  ;  Vendale, 
the  bread  and  meat  and  cheese,  and.  the  flask  of 
brandy. 

They  had  for  some  time  laboured  upward  and  onward 
through  the  snow — which  was  now  above  their  knees  in 
the  track,  and  of  unknown  depth  elsewhere — and  they 
were  still  labouring  upward  and  onward  through  the 
most  frightful  part  of  that  tremendous  desolation,  when 
snow  began  to  fall.  At  first,  but  a  few  flakes  descended 
slowly  and  steadily.  After  a  little  while  the  fall  grew 
much  denser,  and  suddenly  it  began  without  apparent 
cause  to  whirl  itself  into  spiral  shapes.  Instantly  ensu- 
ing upon  this  last  change,  an  icy  blast  came  roaring  at 
them,  and  every  sound  and  force  imprisoned  until  now 
was  let  loose. 

One  of  the  dismal  galleries  through  which  the  road  is 
carried  at  that  perilous  point,  a  cave  eked  out  by  arches 
of  great  strength,  was  near  at  hand.  They  struggled 
into  it,  and  the  storm  raged  wildly.  The  noise  of  the 
wind,  the  noise  of  the  water,  the  thundering  down  of- 
displaced  masses  of  rock  and  snow,  the  awful  voices 
with  which  not  only  that  gorge  but  every  gorge  in  the 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


649 


wKole  monstrous  range  seemed  to  be  suddenly  endowed, 
the  darkness  of  the -night,  the  violent  revolving  of  the 
snow,  which  beat  and  broke  it  into  spray  and  blinded 
them,  thie  madness  of  everything  around  insatiate  for 
destruction,  the  rapid  substitution  of  furious  violence 
for  unnatural  calm,  the  hosts  o»f  appalling  sounds  for 
silence  :  these  were  things,  on  the  edge  of  a  deep  abyss, 
to  chill  the  blood,  though  the  fierce  wind,  made  actually 
solid  by  ice  and  snow,  had  failed  to  chill  it. 

Obenreizer,  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  gallery  without 
ceasing,  signed  to  Vendale  to  help  him  unbuckle  his 
knapsack.  They  could  see  each  other,  but  could  not 
have  heard  each  other  speak.  Vendale  complying, 
Obenreizer  produced  his  bottle  of  wine,  and  poured  some 
out,  motioning  Vendale  to  take  that  for  warmth's  sake, 
and  not  brandy.  Vendale  again  complying,  Obenreizer 
seemed  to  drink  after  him,  and  the  two  walked  back- 
wards and  forwards  side  by  side  ;  both  well  knowing 
that  to  rest  or  sleep  would  be  to  die. 

The  snow  came  driving  heavily  into  the  gallery  by  the 
upper  end  at  which  they  would  pass  out  of  it,  if  they 
ever  passed  out  ;  for  greater  dangers  lay  on  the  road  be- 
hind them  than  before.  The  snow  soon  began  to  choke 
the  arch.  An  hour  more,  and  it  lay  so  high  as  to  block 
out  half  the  returning  daylight.  But  it  froze  hard  now, 
as  it  fell,  and  could  be  clambered  through  or  over.  The 
violence  of  the  mountain  storm  was  gradually  yielding 
to  a  steady  snowfall.  The  wind  still  raged  at  intervals, 
but  not  incessantly  ;  and  when  it  paused,  the  snow  fell 
in  heavy  flakes. 

They  might  have  been  two  hours  in  their  frightful  pri- 
son, when  Obenreizer,  now  crunching  into  the  mound, 
now  creeping  over  it  with  his  head  bowed  do\yn  and  his 
body  touching  the  top  of  the  arch,  make  his  way  out. 
Vendale  followed  close  upon  him,  but  followed  without 
clear  motive  or  calculation.  For  the  lethargy  of  Basle 
was  creeping  over  him  again,  and  mastering  his  senses. 

How  far  he  had  followed  out  of  the  gallery,  or  with 
what  obstacles  he  had  since  contended,  he  knew  not. 
He  became  roused  to  the  knowledge  that  Obenreizer  had 
set  upon  him,  and  that  they  were  struggling  desperately 
in  the  snow.  He  became  roused  to  the  remembrance  of 
what  his  assailant  carried  in  a  girdle.  He  felt  for  it, 
drew  it,  struck  at  him,  struggled  again,  struck  at  him 
again,  cast  him  off,  and  stood  face  to  face  with  him. 

I  promised  to  guide  you  to  your  journey's  end,"  said 
Obenreizer,  and  I  have  kept  my  promise.  The  journey 
of  your  life  ends  here.  Nothing  can  prolong  it.  Yau 
are  sleeping  as  you  stand.*' 

You  are  a  villain.    What  have  you  done  to  me?" 

*'You  are  a  fool.     I  have  drugged  you.    You  are 


650  WORK8  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


doubly  a  fool,  for  I  drugged  you  once  before  upon  the 
journey,  to  try  you.  You  are  trebly  a  fool,  for  I  am  the 
thief  and  forger,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  shall  take  those 
proofs  against  the  thief  -and  forger  from  your  insensible 
body.'' 

The  entrapped  man  tried  to  throw  off  the  lethargy,  but 
its  fatal  hold  upon  him  was  so  sure  that,  even  while  h© 
iieard  those  words,  he  stupidly  wondered  which  of  them 
had  been  wounded,  and  whose  blood  it  was  that  he  saw 
sprinkled  on  the  snow. 

*'What  have  I  done  to  you,"  he  asked,  heavily  and 
thickly,  "  that  you  should  be— so  base — a  murderer  ?" 

Done  to  me  ?  You  have  destroyed  me,  but  that  you 
have  come  to  your  journey's  end.  Your  cursed  activity 
interposed  between  me  and  the  time  I  had  counted  on  in 
which  I  might  have  replaced  the  money.  Done  to  me? 
You  have  come  in  my  way — not  once,  not  twice,  but 
again  and  again  and  again.  Did  I  try  to  shake  you  off 
in  the  beginning,  or  no?    Therefore  you  die  here." 

Vendale  tried  to  think  coherently,  tried  to  speak 
coherently,  tried  to  pick  up  the  iron-shod  staff  he  had  let 
fall ;  failing  to  touch  it,  tried  to  stagger  on  without  its 
aid.  All  in  vain,  all  in  vain  !  He  stumbled,  and  fell 
heavily  forward  on  the  brink  of  the  deep  chasm. 

Stupefied,  dozing,  unable  to  stand  upon  his  feet,  a  vail 
before  his  eyes,  his  senses  of  hearing  deadened,  he  made 
such  a  vigorous  rally  that,  supporting  himself  on  his 
hands,  he  saw  his  enemy  standing  calmly  over  him,  and 
heard  him  speak. 

You  call  me  murderer,"  said  Obenreizer,  with  a  grim 
laugh.  The  name  matters  very  little.  But  at  least  I 
have  set  my  life  against  yours,  for  I  am  surrounded  by 
dangers,  and  may  never  make  my  way  out  of  this  place. 
The  Tourmente  is  rising  again.  The  snow  is  on  ih& 
whirl.  I  must  have  the  papers  now.  Every  moment 
has  my  life  in  it. " 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  Vendale,  in  a  terrible  voice,  staggering 
up  with  a  last  flash  of  fire  breaking  out  of  him  and 
clutching  the  thievish  hands  at  his  breast,  in  both  of  his. 

Stop !  Stand  away  from  me  !  God  bless  my  Mar- 
guerite I  Happily  she  will  never  know  how  I  died. 
Stand  off  from  me,  and  let  me  look  at  your  murderous 
face.    Let  it  remind  me— of  something — left  to  say." 

The  sight  of  hira  fighting  so  hard  for  his  senses,  and 
the  doubt  whether  he  might  not  for  the  instant  be  pos- 
sessed by  the  strength  of  a  dozen  men,  kept  his  opponent 
still.  Wildly  glaring  at  him,  Vendale  faltered  out  the 
broken  words : 

*'Tt  shall  not  be — the  trust— of  the  dead — betrayed  by 
me — reputed  parents — misinherited  fortune — see  to  it ! " 
%  As  his  head  dropped  on  his  breast,  and  he  stumbled  on 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


*the  briniv  of  tlie  chasm  as  before,  tlie  thievish  hands 
once  more,  quick  and  busy,  to  his  breast.  He  made  a 
convulsive'attempt  to  cry  "  No  !  '*  desperately  rolled  him- 
self over  into  the  gulf  ;  and  sank  away  from  his  enemy's 
touch,  like  a  phantom  in  a  dreadful  dream. 

The  mountain  storm  raged  again,  and  passed  again. 
The  awful  mountain- voices  died  away,  the  moon  rose, 
and  the  soft  and  silent  snow  fell. 

'Two  men  and  two  large  dogs  came  out  at  the  door  of 
the  Hospice.  The  men  looked  carefully  around  them, 
and  up  at  the  sky.  The  dogs  rolled  in  snow,  and  took  it 
into  their  mouths,  and  cast  it  up  with  their  paws. 

One  of  the  men  said  to  the  other  :  "  We  may  venture 
now.  We  may  find  them  in  one  of  the  five  Refuges." 
Each  fastened  on  his  back  a  basket  ;  each  took  in  his 
hand  a  strong  spiked  pole  ;  each  girded  under  his  arms  a 
looped  end  of  a  stout  rope,  so  that  'they  were  tied  to- 
gether. ^ 

Suddenly  the  dogs  desisted  from  their  gambols  in  the 
snow,  stood  looking  down  the  ascent,  put  their  noses  up, 
put  their  noses  down,  became  greatly  excited,  and  broke 
into  a  deep  loud  bay  together. 

The  two  men  looked  in  the  faces  of  the  two  dogs.  The 
two  dogs  looked,  with  at  least  equal  intelligence,  ia  the 
faces  of  the  two  men. 

"  Au  secours,  then  !  Help  !  To  the  rescue  cried 
the  two  men.  The  two  dogs,  with  a  glad,  deep,  generous 
bark,  bounded  away. 

Two  more  mad  ones  ! said  the  men,  stricken  motion- 
less, and  looking  away  in  the  moonlight.  Is  it  possible 
in  such  weather  !    And  one  of  them  a  woman  !  " 

Each  of  the  dogs  had  the  corner  of  a  woman's  dress 
in  its  mouth,  and  drew  her  along.  She  fondled  their 
heads  as  she  came  up,  and  she  came  up  through  the  snow 
with  accustomed  tread.  Not  so  the  large  man  with  her, 
who  was  spent  and  winded. 

Dear  guides,  dear  friends  of  travellers  I  I  am  of 
your  country.  We  seek  two  gentlemen  crossing  the 
Pass,  who  should  have  reached  the  Hospice  this  evening." 

"  They  have  reached  it,  ma'amselle." 

Thank  Heaven  !    Oh,  thank  Heaven  !  " 

*'  But,  unhappily,  they  have  gone' on  again.  We  are 
setting  forth  to  seek  them  even  now.  We  had  to  wait 
until  the  Tourmente  passed.  It  has  been  fearful  up  here. " 

Dear  guides,  dear  friends  of  travellers  !  Let  me  go 
with  you.  Let  me  go  with  you  for  the  love  of  God  I 
One  of  those  gentlemen  is  to  be  my  husband.  I  love  him, 
oh,  so  dearly.  Oh,  so  dearly  !  You  see  I  am  not  faint, 
you  see  I  am  not  tired.  I  am  born  a  peasant  girl.  I  will 
show  you  that  I  know  well  how  to  fasten  myself  to  your 


652  WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


ropes.  I  will  do  it  with  my  own  hands.  I  will  swear  to 
be  brave  and  good.  But  let  me  go  with  you,  let  me  go 
with  you  !  If  any  mischance  should  have  beMlen  him, 
my  love  would  find  him,  when  nothing  could.  On  my 
knees,  dear  friends  of  travellers  !  By  the  love  your  dear 
mothers  had  for  your  fathers  !  " 

The  good  rough  fellows  were  moved.  "  After  all," 
they  murmured  to  one  another,  she  speaks  but  the 
truth.  She  knows  the  ways  of  the  mountains.  See  how 
marvellously  she  has  come  here.  But  as  to  Monsieur 
there,  ma'amselle? 

"  Dear  Mr.  Joey,"  said  Marguerite,  addressing  him  in 
his  own  tongue,  you  will  remain  at  the  house,  and 
wait  for  me  ;  will  you  not  ?  " 

If  I  know'd  which  o'  you  two  recommended  M/^ 
growled  Joey  Ladle,  eyeing  the  two  men  with  great  in- 
dignation. I'd  fight  you  for  sixpence,  and  give  you 
half-a-crown  towards  your  expenses.  No,  Miss  Fll 
stick  by  you  as  long  as  there's  any  sticking  left  in  me, 
and  Fll  die  for  you  when  I  can't  do  better." 

The  state  of  the  moon  rendering  it  highly  important 
that  no  time  should  be  lost,  and  the  dogs  showing  signs 
of  great  uneasiness,  the  two  men  quickly  took  their  res- 
olution. The  rope  that  yoked  them  together  was  ex- 
changed for  a  longer  one  ;  the  party  was  secured.  Mar- 
guerite second,  and  the  Cellarman  last ;  and  they  set 
out  for  the  Refuges.  The  actual  distance  of  those  places 
was  nothing  ;  the  whole  five  and  next  Hospice  to  boot, 
being  within  two  miles  ;  but  the  ghastly  way  wag 
whitened  out  and  sheeted  over. 

They  made  no  miss -in  reaching  the  Gallery  where  the 
two  had  taken  shelter.  The  second  storm  of  wind  and 
snow  had  so  wildly  swept  over  it  since,  that  their  tracks 
were  gone.  But  the  dogs  went  to  and  fro  with  their 
noses  down,  and  were  confident.  The  party  stopping, 
however,  at  the  further  arch,  where  the  second  storm 
had  been  especially  furious,  and  where  the  drift  was 
deep,  the  dogs  became  troubled,  and  went  about,  in 
quest  of  a  lost  purpose. 

The  great  abyss  being  known  to  lie  on  the  right,  they 
wandered  too  much  to  the  left,  and  had  to  regain  the 
way  with  infinite  labour  through  a  deep  field  of  snow. 
The  leader  of  the  line  had  stopped  it,  and  was  taking 
note  of  the  landmarks,  when  one  of  the  dogs  fell  to  tear- 
ing up  the  snow  a  little  before  them.  Advancing  and 
stooping  to  look  at  it,  thinking  that  some  one  might  be 
overwhelmed  there,  they  saw  that  it  was  stained,  and 
that  the  stain  was  red. 

The  other  dog  was  now  seen  to  look  over  the  brink  of 
the  gulf,  with  his  fore  legs  straightened  out,  lest  be 
jihould  fall  into  it,  and  to  tremble  in  every  limb.  Then 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


653 


thd  dog  who  had  found  the  stained  snow  joined  hira,  and 
then  they  ran  to  and  fro,  distressed  and  whining.  Fi- 
nally,  they  both  stopped  on  the  brink  together,  and  set- 
ting up  their  heads,  howled  dolefully. 

There  is  some  one  lying  below,"  said  Marguerite. 

"  I  think,so,"  said  the  foremost  man.       Stand  well 
inward,  the  two  last,  and  let  us  look  over." 

The  last  man  kindled  two  torches  from  his  basket, 
and  handed  them  forward.  The  leader  taking  one,  and 
Marguerite  the  other,  they  looked  down  :  now  shading 
the  torches,  now  moving  them  to  the  right  or  left,  now 
raising  them,  now  depressing  them,  as  moonlight  far  be- 
low contended  with  black  shadows.  A  piercing  cry  from 
Marguerite  broke  a  long  silence. 

My  God  !    On  a  projecting  point,  where  a  wall  of  ice 
stretches  forward  over  the  torrent,  I  see  a  human  form  ! " 
Where,  ma'amselle,  where?" 

*'  See,  there  I    On  the  shelf  of  ice  below  the  dogs  !  " 

The  leader,  with  a  sickened  aspect,  drew  inward,  and 
they  were  all  silent.  But  they  were  not  all  inactive. 
Marguerite,  with  swift  and  skilful  fingers,  had  de- 
tached both  herself  and  him  from  the  rope  in  a  few 
seconds. 

**Show  me  the  baskets.    These  two  are  the  only 
ropes  ?  " 

The  only  ropes  here,  ma'amselle  ;  but  at  the  Hos- 
pice— " 

If  he  is  live — I  know  it  is  my  lover — he  will  be  dead 
before  you  «an  return.    Dear  Guides  !    Blessed  friends  ^ 
of  travellers  !    Look  at  me.    Watch  my  hands.    If  they 
falter  or  go  wrong,  make  me  your  prisoner  by  force.  If 
they  are  steady  and  go  right,  help  me  to  save  him  ! " 

She  girded  herself  with  a  cord  under  the  breast  and 
arms,  she  formed  it  into  a  kind  of  jacket,  she  drew  it 
into  knots,  she  laid  its  end  side  by  side  with  the  end  of 
the  other  cord,  she  twisted  and  twined  the  two  together, 
she  set  her  foot  upon  the  knots,  she  strained  them,  sh» 
held  them  for  the  two  men  to  strain  at. 

'*Slie  is  inspired,"  they  said  to  one  another. 

'*By  the  Almighty's  mercy!  she  exclaimed.  ''Yor. 
both  know  that  I  am  by  far  the  lightest  here.  Give  me  tha 
brandy  and  the  wine,  and  lower  me  down  to  him.  Then 
go  for  assistance  and  a  stronger  rope.  You  see  that  when 
it  is  lowered  to  me — look  at  this  about  me  now — I  can 
make  it  fast  and  safe  to  his  bodv.  Alive  or  dead,  I  will 
bring  him  up,  or  die  with  him.  I  love  him  passionately. 
Can  I  say  more  ?  "  . 

They  turned  to  her  companion,  but  he  was  lying  sense- 
less on  the  snow. 

"Lower  me  down  to  him,"  she  said  taking  two  little 
kegs  they  had  brought,  and  hanging  them  about  her* 


654 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


or  I  will  dash  myself  to  pieces  !  I  am  a  peasant,  and 
I  know  no  giddiness  or  fear  ;  and  this  is  nothing  to  me, 
and  I  passionately  love  him.    Lower  me  down  !  " 

Ma'amselle,  ma'amselle,  he  must  be  dying  or  dead.  '* 
Dying,  or  dead,  my  husband's  head  shall  lie  on  my 
breast,  or  I  will  dash  myself  to  pieces." 

They  yielded,  overborne.  With  such  precautions  as 
their  skill  and  the  circumstances  admitted,  they  let  her 
slip  from  the  summit,  guiding  herself  down  the  precip- 
itous icy  wall  with  her  hand,  and  they  lowered  dcwn, 
and  lowered  down,  and  lowered  down,  until  the  cry 
came  up  :     Enough  ! " 

* '  Is  it  really  he,  and  is  he  dead  ?  "  they  called  down, 
looking  over. 

The  cry  came  up  :     He  is  insensible  ;  but  his  heart 
beats.    It  beats  against  mine." 
"  How  does  he  lie  ?  " 

The  cry  came  up  :  "  Upon  a  ledge  of  ice.  It  has 
thawed  beneath  him,  and  it  will  thaw  beneath  me. 
Hasten.    If  we  die,  I  am  content." 

One  of  the  two  men  hurried  off  with  the  dogs  at  such 
top-most  speed  as  he  could  make  ;  the  other  set  up  the 
lighted  torches  in  the  snow,  and  applied  himself  to  re- 
covering the  Englishman.  Much  snow-chafing  and  some 
brandy  got  him  on  his  legs,  but  delirious  and  quite  un- 
conscious where  he  was. 

The  watch  remained  upon  the  brink,  and  his  cry  went 
down  continually  :  Courage  !  They  will  soon  be  here. 
How  goes  it  1 "  And  the  cry  came  up  :  His  heart  still 
beats  against  mine.  I  warm  him  in  my  arms.  I  have 
cast  off  the  rope,  for  the  ice  melts  under  us,  and  the  rope 
would  separate  me  from  him  ;  but  I  am  not  afraid." 

The  moon  went  down  behind  the  mountain  tops,  and 
all  the  abyss  lay  in  darkness.  The  cry  went  down  : 
"How  goes  it?"  The  cry  came  up:  We  are  sink- 
ing lower,  but  his  heart  still  beats  against  mine." 

At  length  tjie  eager  barking  of  the  dogs,  and  a  flare  of 
light  upon  the  snow,  proclaimed  that  help  was  coming 
on.  Twenty  or  thirty  men,  lamps,  torches,  litters,  ropes, 
blankets,  v^^ood  to  kindle  a  great  fire,  restoratives  and 
stimulants,  came  in  fast.  The  dogs  ran  from  one  man 
to  another,  and  from  this  thing  to  that,  and  ran  to  the 
edge  of  the  abyss,  dumbly  entreating  Speed,  speed, 
speed  ! 

The  cry  went  down  :  Thanks  to  God,  all  is  .ready. 
How  goes  it?  " 

The  cry  came  up  :  We  are  sinking  still,  and  we  are 
deadly  cold.  His  heart  no  longer  beats  against  mine. 
Let  no  one  come  down  to  add  to  our  weight.  Lower 
the  rope  only. " 

Th(^  fire  was  kindled  high, a  great  glare  of  torches  lighted 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


655 


the  sides  of  the  precipiece,  lamps  were  lowered,  a  strong 
rope  was  lowered.  She  could  be  seen  passing  it  round 
him,  and  making  it  secure. 

The  cry  came  up  into  a  deathly  silence:  ''Raise  I 
Softly  !  '*  They  could  see  her  diminished  figure  shrink, 
as  sh^  was  swung  into  the  air. 

They  gave  no  shout  when  some  of  them  laid  him  on  a 
litter  and  others  lowered  another  strong  rope.  The  cry 
again  came  up  into  a  deathly  silence  :  Raise  !  Softly  ! 
But  wh«n  they  caught  her  at  the  brink,  then  they 
shouted,  then  they  wept,  then  they  gave  thanks  to 
Heaven,  then  they  kissed  her  feet,  then  they  kissed  her 
dress,  then  the  dogs  caressed  her,  licked  her  icy  hands, 
and  with  their  honest  faces  warmed  her  frozen  bosom  I 

She  broke  from  them  all,  and  sank  over  him  on  his 
Jitter,  with  both  her  loving  hands  upon  the  heart  that 
fftood  still. 


ACT  IV. 

The  Clock-Lock. 

The  pleasant  scene  was  Neuchatel ;  the  pleasant  month 
was  April  ;  the  pleasant  . place  was  a  notary's  office  :  the 
pleasant  person  in  it  was  the  notary  :  a  rosy,  hearty, 
handsome  old  man,  chief  notary  of  Neuchatel  knn  wn  far 
and  wide  in  the  canton  as  Maitre  Voigt.  Profession- 
ally and  personally,  the  notary  was  a  popular  citizen.  \ 
His  innumerable  kindnesses  and  his  innumerable  oddi- 
ties had  for  years  made  him  one  of  the  recognized  public 
characters  of  the  pleasant  Swiss  town.  His  long  brown 
frock-coat  and  his  black  skull-cap  were  among  the  insti- 
tutions of  the  place  ;  and  he  carried  a  snuff-box  which, 
in  point  of  size,  was  popularly  believed  to  be  without  a 
parallel  in  Europe. 

There  was  another  person  in  the  notary's  office,  not  so 
pleasant  as  the  notary.    This  was  Obenreizer. 

An  oddly  pastoral  kind  of  office  it  was,  and  one  that 
would  never  have  answered  in  England.  It  stood  in  s 
neat  back  yard,  fenced  off  from  a  pretty  flower-garden. 
Goats  browsed  in  the  doorway,  and  a  cow  was  within  a 
half-a-dozeii  feet  of  keeping  company  with  the  clerk. 
Maitre  Voigf  s  room  was  a  bright  and  varnished  little 
room,  with  panelled  walls,  like  a  toy-chamber.  Accord- 
ing to  the  seasons  of  the  year,  roses,  sunflowers,  holly- 
hocks, peeped  in  at  the  windows.  Maitre  Voigt's  bees 
hummed  through  the  office  all  the  summer,  in  at  this 
window  and  out  at  that,  taking  it  frequently  in  their 
day's  work,  as  if  honey  were  to  be  made  from  Maitre 
Voigt's  sweet  disposition.    A  large  musical  box  on  the 


$56  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


chimney-piece  often  trilled  away  at  the  Overture  to  Fra 
Diavolo,  or  a  selection  from  William  Tell,  with  a  chir- 
ruping liveliness  that  had  to  be  stopped  by  force,  on  the 
entrance  of  a  client,  and  irrepressibly  broke  out  again  the 
moment  his  back  w^as  turned. 

Courage,  courage,  my  good  fellow  I said  Maitre 
Voigt,  patting  Obenreizer  on  the  knee,  in  a  fatherly  and 
comforting  w^ay.  You  will  begin  a  new  life  to-morrow 
morning  in  my  office  here." 

Obenreizer  —  dressed  in  mourning,  and  subdued  in 
manner — lifted  his  hand,  with  a  white  handkerchief  in 
it,  to  the  region  of  his  heart.  "  The  gratitude  is  here," 
he  said.       But  the  v/ords  to  express  it  are  not  here." 

Ta-ta-ta  !  Don't  talk  to  me  about  gratitude  I  '*  said 
Maitre  Voigt.  hate  to  see  a  man  oppressed.    I  see 

you  oppressed,  and  I  hold  out  my  hand  to  you  by  in- 
stinct. Besides,  I  am  not  too  old  yet,  not  to  remember 
ray  young  days.  You  father  sent  me  my  first  client. 
(It  was  on  a  question  of  half  an  acre  of  vineyard  that 
seldom  bore  any  grapes.)  Do  I  owe  nothing  to  your' 
father's  son  ?  I  owe  him  a  debt  of  friendly  obligation, 
and  I  pay  it  to  you.  That's  rather  neatly  expressed,  I 
think,"  added  Maitre  Voigt,  in  high  good  humour  with 
himself.  ' '  Permit  me  to  reward  my  own  merit  with  a 
pinch  of  snuff  !  " 

Obenreizer  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  ground,  as  though 
he  were  not  even  worthy  to  see  the  notary  take  snuff. 

*'Do  me  one  last  favour,  sir,"  he  said,  when  he  raised 
his  eyes.  Do  not  act  on  impulse.  Thus  far,  you  have 
only  a  general  knowledge  of  my  position.  Hear  the  case 
for  and  against  me,  in  its  details,  before  you  take  me 
into  your  office.  Let  my  claim  on  your  benevolence  be 
recognized  by  your  sound  reason  as  well  as  by  your 
excellent  heart.  In  that  case,  I  may  hold  up  my  head 
against  the  bitterest  of  my  enemies,  and  build  myself 
a  new  reputation  on  the  ruins  of  the  character  I  have 
lost." 

"  As  you  will,"  said  Maitre  Voigt.  "You  speak  well, 
my  son.    You  will  be  a  fine  lawyer  one,  of  these  days." 

'*The  details  are  not  many,"  pursued  Obenreizer. 
"  My  troubles  begin  with  the  accidental  death  of  my 
iate  travelling  companion,  my  lost  dear  friend,  Mr.  Ven- 
dale." 

*'Mr.  Vendale,"  repeated  the  notary.  "Just  so.  I 
have  heard  and  read  of  the  name,  several  times  within 
these  two  months.  The  name  of  the  unfortunate  En- 
glish gentleman  who  was  killed  on  the  Simplon.  When 
you  got  that  scar  upon  your  cheek  and  neck." 

*' — From  my  own  knife,"  said  Obenreizer,"  touching 
what  must  have  been  an  ugly  gash  at  the  time  of  its  in- 
fliction. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"From  your  own  knife,"  assented  the  notary,  and 
in  trying  to  save  him.  Good,  good,  good.  That  was 
very  good.  Vendale.  Yes.  I  have  several  times,  late- 
ly, thought  it  droll  that  I  should  once  have  had  a  client 
of  that  name." 

"But  the  world,  sir,"  returned  Obenreizer,  is  so 
small  \ "  Nevertheless  he  made  a  mental  note  that  the 
notary  had  once  had  a  client  of  that  name. 

*'  As  I  was  saying,  sir,  the  death  of  that  dear  travel- 
ling comrade  begins  my  troubles.  What  follows  ?  I 
save  myself.  I  go  down  to  Milan.  I  am  received  with 
coldness  by  Defresnier  and  Company.  Shortly  after- 
wards, I  am  discharged  by  Defresnier  and  Company. 
Why  ?  They  give  me  no  reason  why.  I  ask,  do  they 
assail  my  honour?  No  answer.  I  ask,  what  is  the  im- 
putation against  me  ?  No  answer.  I  ask,  where  are 
their  proofs  against  me  ?  No  answer.  I  ask,  what  am 
I  to  think  ?  The  reply  is,  *  M.  Obenreizer  is  free  to 
think  what  he  will.  What  M.  Obenreizer  thinks,  is  of 
no  importance  to  Defresnier  and  Company.'  And  that  is 
all." 

"  Perfectly.  That  is  all,"  assented  the  notary,  taking 
a  large  pinch  of  snuff. 

"  But  is  that  enough,  sir  ?  " 
That  is  not  enough,"  said  Maitre  Voigt.  "The 
House  of  Defresnier  are  my  fellow-townsmen — much  re 
spected,  much  esteemed — but  the  House  of  Defresnier 
must  not  silently  destroy  a  man's  character.  You  can 
rebut  assertion.    But  how  can  you  rebut  silence  ?  " 

''Your  sense  of  justice,  my  dear  patron,"  answered 
Obenreizer,  states  in  a  word  the  cruelty  of  the  case. 
Does  it  stop  there?  No.  For,  what  follows  upon 
that?" 

True,  my  poor  boy,"  said  the  notary,  with  a  com- 
forting nod  or  two  ;  ***your  ward  rebels  upon  that  ?  " 

"Rebels  is  too  soft  a  word,"  retorted  Obenreizer. 
"My  ward  revolts  from  me  with  horror.  My  ward  de- 
fies me.  My  ward  withdraws  herself  from  my  authority, 
and  takes  shelter  (Madame  Dor  with  her)  in  the  house 
of  that  English  lawyer,  Mr.  Bintrey,  who  replies  to  your 
summons  to  her  to  submit  herself  to  my  authority,  that 
she  will  not  do  so." 

" — And  who  afterwards  writes,"  said  the  notary,  mov- 
ing his  large  snuff-box  to  look  among  the  papers  under- 
Meath  it  for  the  letter,  "  that  he  is  coming  to  confer  with 
me." 

*' Indeed?"  replied  Obenreizer,  rather  checked. 
"Well,  sir.    Have  I  no  legal  rights  ?  " 

"Assuredly,  my  poor  boy,"  returned  the  notary.  *  *  All 
but  felons  have  their  legal  rights." 

"  And  who  calls  me  felon?  "  said  Obenreizer,  fiercely. 


558         ,      WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"  No  one.  Be  calm  under  your  wrongs.  If  the  House 
of  Defresnier  would  call  you  felon,  indeed,  we  should 
know  how  to  deal  with  them." 

While  saying  these  words,  he  had  handed  Bin  trey's 
very  short  letter  to  Obenreizer,  who  now  read  it  and 
gave  it  back. 

'*  In  saying/*  observed  Obenreizer  with  recovered  com- 
posure, "  that  he  is  coming  to  confer  with  you,  this  Eng- 
lish lawyer  means  that  he  is  coming  to  deny  my  author- 
ity  over  my  ward.'* 
You  think  s6?" 

'*  T  am  sure  of  it.  I  know  him.  He  is  obstinate  and 
contentious.  You  will  tell  me,  my  dear  sir,  whether  my 
authority  is  unassailable,  until  my  ward  is  of  age  T* 

"Absolutely  unassailable." 

*'  I  will  enforce  it.  I  will  make  her  submit  herself  to 
it.  For,"  said  Obenreizer,  changing  his  angry  tone  to 
one  of  grateful  submission,  I  owe  it  to  you  sir  ;  to  you 
who  have  so  confidingly  taken  an  injured  man  under 
your  protection,  and  into  your  employment." 

''Make  your  mind  easy,"  said  Maitre  Voigt.  "No 
more  of  this  now,  and  no  thanks  I  Be  here  to-morrow 
morning,  before  the  other  clerk  comes — between  seven 
and  eight.  You  will  find  me  in  this  room  ;  and  I  will 
myself  initiate  you  in  your  work.    Go  away  !  go  away  I 


Dismissed  with  this  generous  abruptness,  and  satisfied 
with  the  favorable  impression  he  had  left  on  the  old 
^an's  mind,  Obenreizer  was  at  leisure  to  revert  to  the 
mental  note  he  had  made  that  Maitre  Voight  once  had  a 
client  whose  name  was  Vendale. 

"  I  ought  to  know  England  well  enough  by  this  time  ; " 
60  his  meditations  ran,  as  he  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  yard  : 
"  and  it  is  not  a  name  I  have  encountered  there,  except 
— "  he  looked  involuntarily  over  his  shoulder — "as  Ms 
name.  Is  the  world  so  small  that  I  cannot  get  away 
from  him,  even  now  when  he  is  dead  ?  He  confessed  a\ 
the  last  that  he  had  betrayed  the  trust  of  the  dead,  and 
inisinherited  a  fortune.  And  I  was  to  see  it.  And  I  was 
to  stand  off,  that  my  face  might  not  remind  him  of  it. 
Why  face,  unless  it  concerned  me  ?  I  am  sure  of  his 
words,  for  they  have  been  in  my  ears  ever  since.  Can 
there  be  anything  bearing  on  them,  in  the  keeping  of 
this  old  idiot?  Anything  to  repair  my  fortunes,  and 
blacken  his  memory  ?  He  dwelt  upon  my  earliest  re- 
membrances, that  night  at  Basle.  V7hy,  unless  he  had 
a  purpose  in  it  ?  " 

Maitre  Voigt's  two  largest  he-goats  were  butting  at 
him  to  butt  him  out  of  the  place,  as  if  for  that  disre- 
spectful mention  of  their  master.  So  he  got  up  and 
left  the  place.    But  he  walked  alone  for  a  long  time  on 


I  won't  hear  a  word  more. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


659 


the  border  of  the  lake,  with  his  head  drooped  in  deep 
thought. 

Between  seven  and  eight  next  morning,  he  presented 
himself  again  at  the  office.  He  found  the  notary  ready 
for  him,  at  work  on  some  papers  which  had  come  in  on 
the  previous  evening.  In  a  few  clear  words,  Maitre 
Voigt  explained  the  routine  of  the  office,  and  the  duties 
Obenreizer  would  be  expected  to  perform.  It  still  want- 
ed five  minutes  to  eight,  when  the  preliminary  instruc- 
tions were  declared  to  be  complete. 

'*  I  will  show  you  over  the  house  and  the  offices,"  said 
Maitre  Voigt,  but  I  must  put  away  these  papers  first. 
They  come  from  the  muni,cipal  authorities,  and  they 
must  be  taken  special  care  of. 

Obenreizer  saw  his  chance,  here,  of  finding  out  the 
repository  in  which  his  employer's  private  papers  were 
kept. 

"Gan't  I  save  you  the  trouble,  sir?"  he  asked. 
"Can't  I  put  those  documents  away  under  your  direc- 
tions ?  " 

Maitre  Voigt  laughed  softly  to  himself  ;  closed  the 
portfolio  in  which  the  papers  had  been  sent  to  him  ^ 
handed  it  to  Obenreizer. 

Suppose  you  try,"  he  said.  "All  my  papers  of  im- 
portance are  kept  yonder." 

He  pointed  to  a  heavy  oaken  door,  thickly  studded 
with  nails,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room.  Approaching 
the  door,  with  the  portfolio,  Obenreizer  discovered  to 
his  astonishment,  that  there  were  no  means  whatever 
of  opening  it  from  the  outside.  There  was  no  handle, 
no  bolt,  no  key,  and  (climax  of  passive  obstruction  !)  no 
keyhole. 

"  There  is  a  second  door  to  this  room  ?  "  said  Oben- 
reizer appealing  to  the  notary. 

"No,"  said  Maitre  Voigt.    "Guess  again." 
"  There  is  a  window?" 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort.  The  window  has  been  bricked 
up.  The  only  way  in,  is  the  way  by  that  door.  Do  you 
give  it  up  ?  "  cried  Maitre  Voigt,  in  high  triumph. 
"  Listen,  my  good  fellow,  and  tell  me  if  you  hear  noth- 
ing inside  ?  " 

Obenreizer  listened  for  a  moment,  and  started  back 
from  the  door. 

"  I  know  I  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  heard  of  this  when  I 
was  apprenticed  here  at  the  watchmaker's.  Perrin 
Brothers  have  finished  their  famous  clock-lock  at  last — . 
and  you  have  got  it  ?  " 

"  Bravo  !  "  said  Maitre  Voigt.  "  The  clock- lock  it  is  I 
There  my  son  I    There  you  have  one  more  of  what  the 

food  people  of  this  town  call,  '  Daddy  Voigt's  follies.  * 
Viih.  all  my  heart  I    Let  those  laugh  who  win.  "No  thiejf 


G60 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


caD  Steal  my  keys.  No  burglar  can  pick  my  lock.  No 
power  on  earth,  short  of  a  battering-ram  or  a  barrel  of 
gunpowder,  can  move  that  door,  till  my  little  sentinel 
inside— my  worthy  friend  who  goes  *  Tick,  Tick,'  as  I 
tell  him — says  '  Open  !  "  The  big  door  obeys  the  little 
Tick,  Tick,  and  the  little  Tick,  Tick,  obeys  ms.  That  I" 
cried  Daddy  Voigt  snapping  his  fingers,  for  all  the 
thieves  in  Christendom  I " 

May  I  see  it  in  action  ?  "  asked  Obenreizer.  "  Par- 
don my  curiosity,  dear  sir  !  You  know  that  I  was  once 
a  tolerable  worker  in  the  clock  trade." 

"  Certainly  you  shall  see  it  in  action,"  said  Maitre 
Voigt.  What  is  the  time  now.  One  minute  to  eight. 
Watch,  and  in  one  minute  you  will  see  the  door  open  of 
itself." 

In  one  minute,  smoothly  and  slowly  and  silently,  as  if 
ftavisible  hands  had  set  it  free,  the  heavy  door  opened 
iaward,  and  disclosed  a  dark  chamber  beyond.  On  three 
gides,  shelves  filled  the  walls,  from  floor  to  ceiling.  Ar- 
ranged on  the  shelves,  were  rows  upon  rows  of  boxes 
made  in  the  pretty  inlaid  woodwork  of  Switzerland, 
|ind  bearing  inscribed  on  their  fronts  (for  the  most  part 
in  fanciful  colored  letters)  the  names  of  the  notary's 
clients. 

Maitre  Voigt  lighted  a  taper,  and  led  the  way  into  the 
room. 

You  shall  see  the  clock,"  he  said  proudly.  I  pos- 
sess the  greatest  curiosity  in  Europe.  It  is  only  a  privi- 
leged few  whose  eyes  can  look  at  it.  I  give  the  privilege 
to  your  father's  son — you  shall  be  one  of  the  favored  few 
who  can  enter  the  room  with  me.  See  !  here  it  is,  on 
the  right  hand  wall  at  the  side  of  the  door. 

"An  ordinary  clock,"  exclaimed  Obenreizer.  **No 
not  an  ordinary  clock.    It  has  only  one  hand." 

**  Aha  !  "  said  Maitre  Voigt.  Not  an  ordinary  clock, 
my  friend.  No,  no.  That  one  hand  goes  round  the 
dial.  As  I  put  it,  so  it  regulates  the  hour  at  which  the 
door  shall  open.  See  !  The  hand  points  to  eight.  At 
eight  the  door  opened,  as  you  saw  for  yourself." 

Does  it  open  more  than  once  in  the  four-and-twenty 
hours?"  asked  Obenreizer. 

More  than  once  ?  "  repeated  the  notary,  with  great 
sscorn.  You  don't  know  my  good  friend  Tick  Tick! 
He  will  open  the  door  as  often  as  I  ask  him.  All  he 
wants  is  his  directions,  and  he  gets  them  here.  Look 
below  the  dial.  Here  is  a  half -circle  of  steel  let  into 
the  wall,  and  here  is  a  hand  (called  the  regulator)  that 
travels  round  it,  just  as  my  hand  chooses.  Notice,  if 
you  please,  that  there  are  figures  to  guide  me  on  the 
half  circle  of  steel.  Figure  I.  means  :  Open  once  in  the 
iour-and- twenty  hours,    Figure  II.  means  :  Open  twice  , 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


661 


and  so  on  to  the  end.  I  set  tlie  regulator  every  morning, 
after  I  liave  read  my  letters,  and  when  I  know  what  niy 
day's  work  is  to  be.  Would  you  like  to  see  me  set  it 
now  ?  What  day  is  to-day  ?  Wednesday.  Good  !  This 
is  the  day  of  our  rifle  club  ;  there  is  little  business  to  do  ; 
I  grant  a  half-holiday.  No  work  here  to-day,  after  three 
o'clock.  Let  us  first  put  aw^ay  this  portfolio  of  munici- 
pal papers.  There  !  No  need  to  trouble  Tick  Tick  to 
open  the  door  until  eight  to-morrow.  Good  1  I  leave 
the  dial-hand  at  eight ;  I  put  back  the  regulator  to  I.  ;  I 
close  the  door  ;  and  closed  the  door  remains,  past  all  open- 
ing by  anybody,  till  to-morrow  morning  at  eight. " 

Obenreizer's  quickness  instantly  saw  the  means  by 
which  he  might  make  the  clock-lock  betray  its  master's 
confidence,  and  place  its  master's  papers  at  his  disposal. 

''Stop,  sir  !  he  cried,  at  the  moment  when  the  notary 
was  closing  the  door.  "  Don't  I  see  something  moving 
among  the  boxes — on  the  floor  there  ?  " 

(Maitre  Yoigt  turned  his  back  for  a  moment  to  look. 
In  that  moment,  Obenreizer's  ready  hand  put  the  regu- 
lator on,  from  the  figure  '*  I."  to  the  figure  **IL"  Un- 
less the  notary  looked  again  at  the  half-circle  of  steel, 
the  door  would  open  at  eight  that  evening,  as  well  as  at 
eight  next  morning,  and  nobody  but  Obenreizer  would 
know^  it.) 

''There  is  nothing!"  said  Maitre  Voigt.  "Your 
troubles  have  shaken  your  nerves,  my  son.  Some  sha- 
dow thrown  by  my  taper  ;  or  some  poor  little  beetle, 
who  lives  among  the  old  lawyer's  secrets,  running  away 
from  the  light.  Hark  !  I  hear  your  fellow-clerk  in  the 
ofl^ce.  To  work  !  to  work  !  and  build  to-day,  the  first 
step  that  leads  to  your  new  fortunes  ! " 

He  good  humouredly  pushed  Obenreizer  out  before 
him,  extinguished  the  taper,  with  a  fast  fond  glance  at 
his  clock  which  passed  harmlessly  over  the  regulator 
beneath  ;  and  closed  the  oaken  door. 

At  three,  the  oflSce  was  shut  up.  The  notary  and 
everybody  in  the  notary's  employment,  v^ith  one  excep- 
tion, went  to  see  the  rifle-shooting.  Obenreizer  had 
pleaded  that  he  was  not  in  spirits  for  a  public  festival. 
Nobody  knew  what  had  become  of  him.  It  was  believed 
that  he  had  slipped  away  for  a  solitary  walk. 

The  house  and  offices  had  been  closed  but  a  few  min- 
utes, when  the  door  of  a  shining  wardrobe  in  the  no- 
tary's shining-room  opened,  and  Obenreizer  stepped  out. 
He  walked  to  a  window,  unclosed  the  shutters,  satisfied 
himself  that  he  could  escape  unseen  by  way  of  the  gar- 
den, turned  back  into  the  room,  and  took  his  place  in  the 
notary's  easy-chair.  He  was  locked  up  in  the  house,  and 
there  were  five  hours  to  wait  before  eight  o'clock  came. 

He  wore  his  way  through  the  five  hours  :  sometimes 


662 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


reading  tjie  books  and  newspapers  that  lay  on  the  table, 
sometimes  thinking,  sometimes  walking  to  and  fro. 
Sunset  came  on.  He  closed  the  window-shutters  before 
he  kindled  a  light.  The  candle  lighted,  and  the  time 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  he  sat,  watch  in  hand,  witk 
his  eyes  on  the  oaken  door. 

At  eight,  smoothly  and  softly  and  silently  the  door 
opened. 

One  after  another,  he  read  the  names  on  the  outer 
rows  of  boxes.  No  such  name  as  Vendale  !  He  removed 
the  outer  row,  and  looked  at  the  row  behind.  These 
were  older  boxes,  and  shabbier  boxes.  The  four  first 
that  he  examined,  were  inscribed  with  French  and  Ger- 
man names.  The  fifth  bore  a  name  which  was  almost 
illegible.  He  brought  it  out  into  the  room,  and  exam- 
ined it  closely.  There,  covered  thickly  with  time-stains 
and  dust,  was  the  name  :  Vendale." 

The  key  hung  to  the  box.  by  a  string.  He  unlocked 
the  box,  took  out  four  loose  papers  that  were  in  it,  spread 
them  open  on  the  table,  and  began  to  read  them.  He 
had  not  so  occupied  a  minute,  when  his  face  fell  from 
its  expression  of  eagerness  and  avidity,  to  one  of  hag- 
gard astonishment  and  disappointment.  But,  after  a  lit- 
tle consideration,  he  copied  the  papers.  He  then  re- 
placed the  papers,  replaced  the  box,  closed  the  door,  ex- 
tinguished the  candle,  and  stole  away. 

As  his  murderous  and  thievish  footfall  passed  out  of 
the  garden,  the  steps  of  the  notary  and  some  one  accom- 
panying him  stopped  at  the  front  door  of  the  house. 
The  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  little  street,  and  the 
notary  had  his  door-key  in  his  hand. 

"Pi'ay  do  not  pass  my  house,  Mr.  Bintrey,"  he  said. 

Do  me  the  honour  to  come  in.  It  is  one  of  our  town 
half -holidays— our  Tir — but  my  people  will  be  back 
directly.  It  is  droll  that  you  should  ask  your  way  to  the 
Hotel  of  me.  Let  us  eat  and  drink  before  you  go  there." 
J  ''Thank  you;  not  to-night,'' said  Bintrey.  ''Shall  I 
come  to  you  at  ten  to-morrow?" 

"  I  shall  be  enchanted,  sir,  to  take  so  early  an  oppor- 
tunity of  redressing  the  wrongs  of  my  injured  client," 
returned  the  good  notary. 

"Yes,"  retorted  Bintrey;  your  injured  client  is  ail 
very  well — but — a  word  in  your  ear." 

He  whispered  to  the  notary  and  walked  off.  When 
the  notary's  housekeeper  came  home,  she  found  him 
standing  at  his  door  motionless,  with  the  key  still  in  his 
hand,  and  the  door  unopened. 

Obenreizer's  Victor]/. 

The  scene  shifts  again — to  the  foot  of  the  Simplon,  on 
the  Swiss  side. 


M1SCBLLANEOU&. 


663 


In  one  of  the  dreary  rooms  of  the  dreary  little  inn  at 
Brieg,  Mr.  Bin  trey  and  Maitre  Voigt  sat  together  at  a 
professional  council  of  two.  Mr.  Bintrey  was  searching 
in  his  despatch  box.  Maitre  Voigt  was  looking  towards 
a  closed  door,  painted  brown  to  imitate  mahogany,  and 
communicating  with  an  inner  room. 

Isn't  it  time  he  was  here?''  asked  the  notary,  shift- 
ing his  position,  and  glancing  at  a  second  door  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  painted  yellow  to  imitate  deal. 

"He  is  here,"  answered  Bintrey,  after  listening  for  a 
moment. 

The  yellow  door  was  opened  by  a  waiter,  and  Obenrei- 
zer  walked  in. 

After  greeting  Maitre  Voigt  with  a  cordiality  which 
appeared  to  cause  the  notary  no  little  embarrassment, 
Obenreizer  bowed  with  grave  and  distant  politeness  to 
Bintrey.  For  what  reason  have  I  been  brought  from 
Neuchatel  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain?"  he  inquired, 
takihg  the  seat  which  the  English  lawyer  had  indicated 
to  him. 

'*You  shall  be  quite  satisfied  on  that  head  before  our 
interview  is  over,"  returned  Bintrey.  For  the  present, 
permit  me  to  suggest  proceeding  at  once  to  business. 
There  has  been  a  correspondence,  Mr.  Obenreizer, 
between  you  and  your  niece.  I  am  here  to  represent 
your  niece." 

**  In  other  words,  you,  a  lawyer,  are  here  to  represent 
an  infraction  of  the  law." 

"  Admirably  put  I"  said  Bintrey.  If  all  the  people 
I  have  to  deal  with  were  only  like  you  what  an  easy 
profession  mine  would  be  !  I  am  here  to  represent  an 
infraction  of  the  law — that  is  your  point  of  view.  I  am 
here  to  make  a  compromise  between  you  and  your  niece 
— ^that  is  my  point  of  view." 

''There  must  be  two  parties  to  a  compromise,"  re- 
joined Obenreizer.  I  decline,  in  this  case,  to  be  one  of 
them.  The  law  gives  me  authority  to  control  my  niece's 
actions,  until  she  comes  of  age.  She  is  not  yet  of  age  : 
and  I  claim  my  authority." 

At  this  point  Maitre  Voigt.  attempted  to  speak.  Bin- 
trey silenced  him  with  a  compassionate  indulgence  of 
ton^  and  manner,as  if  he  was  silencing  a  favourite  child." 

'*No,  my  worthy  friend,  not  a  word.  Don't  excite 
yourself  unnecessarily;  leave  it  to  me."  He  turned, 
and  addressed  liimsolf  again  to  Obenreizer.  *'I  can 
think  of  nothing  comparable  to  you,  Mr.  Obenreizer, 
but  granite — and  even  that  wears  out  in  course  of  time. 
In  the  interests  of  peace  and  quietness — for  the  sake  of 
your  own  dignity — relax  a  little.  If  you  will  only  dele- 
gate your  authority  to  another  person  whom  I  know  of, 
that  person  may  be  trusted  never  to  lose  siglit  of  your 
niece,  night  or  day  !  " 


564  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


*'Tou  are  wasting  your  time  and  mine,"  returned 
Obenreizer.  If  my  niece  is  not  rendered  up  to  my 
authority  within  one  week  from  this  day,  I  invoke  the 
law.    If  you  resist  the  law,  I  take  her  by  force." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  as  he  said  the  last  word.  Maitre 
Voigt  looked  round  again  towards  the  brown  door  which 
led  into  the  inner  room. 

Have  some  pity  on  the  poor  girl,"  pleaded  Bintrey. 
'  Remember  how  lately  she  lost  her  lover  by  a  dreadful 
death  I    Will  nothing  move  you?" 

*'  Nothing." 

Bin  trey  in  his  turn,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  looked  at 
Maitre  Voigt.  Maitre  Voigt's  hand,  resting  on  the  table, 
began  to  tremble.  Maitre  Voigt's  eyes  remained  fixed, 
as  if  by  irresistible  fascination,  on  the  brown  door. 
Obenreizer,  suspiciously  observing  him,  looked  that  way 
too. 

There  is  somebody  listening  in  there  !"  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  sharp  backward  glance  at  Bintrey. 

"  There  are  two  people  listening,"  answered  Bintrey, 
"  Who  are  they  ?  " 
"You  shall  see." 

With  that  answer,  he  raised  his  voice  and  spoke  the 
next  words — the  two  common  words  which  are  on  every- 
body's lips,  at  every  hour  of  the  day  :     Come  in  I " 

The  brown  door  opened.  Supported  on  Marguerite's 
arm — ^his  sunburnt  colour  gone,  his  right  arm  bandaged 
and  slung  over  his  breast — Vendale  stood  before  the 
murderer,  a  man  risen  from  the  dead. 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed,  the  singing  of 
a  caged  bird  in  the  courtyard  outside  was  the  one  sound 
stirring  in  the  room.  Maitre  Voigt  touched  Bintrey,  and 
pointed  to  Obenreizer.  Look  at  him  1 "  said  the  notary 
in  a  whisper. 

The  shock  had  paralysed  every  movement  in  the  vil- 
lain's body,  but  the  movement  of.  the  blood.  His  face 
was  like  the  face  of  a  corpse.  The  one  vestige  of  colour 
left  in  it  was  a  livid  purple  streak  which  marked  the 
course  of  the  scar  where  his  victim  had  wounded  him  on 
the  cheek  and  neck.  Speechless,  breathless,  motionless, 
alike  in  eye  and  limb,  it  seemed  as  if,  at  the  sight  of 
Vendale,  the  death  to  which  he  had  doomed  Vendale 
had  struck  him  where  he  stood. 

Somebody  ought  to  speak  to  him,"  said  Maitre 
Voigt.    ''Shall  I?" 

Even  at  that  moment  Bintrey  persisted  in  silencing  the 
notary,  and  in  keeping  the  lead  in  the  proceedings  to 
Mmself.  Checking  Maitre  Voigt  by  a  gesture,  he  dis- 
missed Marguerite  and  Vendale  in  these  words  : — "The 
object  of  your  appearance  here  is  answered,"  he  said. 
"  If  you  will  withdraw  for  the  present,  it  may  help  Mr. 
Obenreizer  to  recover  himself." 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


665 


It  did  help  liim.  As  the  two  passed  through  the  door 
and  closed  it  behind  them,  he  drew  a  deep  breath  of  re- 
lief. He  looked  round  him  for  the  chair  from  which  he 
had  risen,  and  dropped  into  it. 

"Give  him  time  ! "  pleaded  Maitre  Yoigt. 

"  No/'  said  Bintrey.  I  don't  know  what  use  he  may 
make  of  it  if  1  do."  He  turned  once  more  to  Obenreizer, 
and  went  on.  I  owe  it  .to  myself,"  he  said — "I  don't 
admit,  mind,  that  I  owe  it  to  you — to  account  for  my  ap- 
pearance in  these  proceedings,  and  to  state  what  has  been 
done  under  my  advice,  and  on  my  sole  responsibility. 
Can  you  listen  to  me?" 
can  listen  to  you." 

"Recall  the  time  when  you  started  for  Switzerland 
with  Mr.  Vendale,"  Bintrey  began.  "  You  had  not  left 
England  four-and-twenty  hours  before  your  niece  com 
mitted  an  act  of  imprudence  which  not  even  your  pene 
tration  could  foresee.  She  followed  her  promised  hus- 
band on  his  journey,  without  asking  anybody's  advice  or 
permission,  and  without  any  better  companion  to  protect 
her  than  a  Cellarman  in  Mr.  Vendale's  employment  !  " 

"  Why  did  she  follow  me  on  the  journey?  and  how 
came  the  Cellarman  to  be  the  person  who  accompanied 
her?" 

"  She  followed  you  on  the  journey,"  answered  Bintrey, 
"  because  she  suspected  there  had  been  some  serious  col- 
lision between  you  and  Mr.  Vendale,  which  had  been  kept 
secret  from  her ;  and  because  she  rightly  believed  you 
to  be  capable  of  serving  your  interests,  or  of  satisfying 
your  enmity,  at  the  price  of  a  crime.  As  for  the  Cellar- 
man,  he  was  one,  among  the  other  people  in  Mr.  Ven- 
dale's establishment,  to  whom  she  had  applied  (the  mo- 
ment your  back  was  turned)  to  know  if  anything  had 
happened  between  their  master  and  you.  The  Cellarman 
alone  had  something  to  tell  her.  A  senseless  supersti- 
tion, and  a  common  accident  which  had  happened  to  his 
master,  in  his  master's  cellar,  had  connected  Mr.  Ven- 
dale in  this  man's  mind  with  the  idea  of  danger  by 
murder.  Your  niece  surprised  him  into  a  confession, 
which  aggravated  tenfold  the  terrors  that  possessed  her. 
Aroused  to  a  sense  of  the  mischief  he  had  done,  the  ma^, 
of  his  own  accord,  made  the  one  atonement  in  his  power, 
'If  my  master  is  in  danger,  miss,'  he  said,  '  it's  my  duty 
to  follow  him,  too  ;  and  it's  more  than  my  duty  to  take 
care  of  you.'  The  two  set  forth  together — and,  for  once, 
a  superstition  has  had  its  use.  It  decided  your  niece  on 
taking  the  journey  ;  and  it  led  the  way  to  saving  a  man's 
life.    Do  you  understand  me,  so  far  ?  " 

"I  understand  you,  so  far." 

"My  first  knowledge  of  the  crime  that  you  had  com- 
mitted," pursued  Bintrey,  "  came  to  me  in  the  form  of  a 
letter  frojn  your  niece.    All  you  need  know  is,  that  her 


666 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKBlsrS. 


iove  and  lier  courage  recovered  the  body  of  your  victim, 
and  aided  the  after-efforts  which  brought  him  back  to 
life.  While  he  lay  helpless  at  Brieg,  under  her  care, 
she  wrote  to  me  to  come  out  to  him.  Before  starting, 
I  informed  Madame  Dor  that  I  knew  Miss  Obenreizer  to 
be  safe,  and  knew  where  she  was.  Madame  Dor  in- 
formed me,  in  return,  that  a  letter  had  come  for  your 
niece,  which  she  knew  to  be  .in  your  handwriting.  I 
took  possession  of  it,  amd  arranged  for  the  forwarding 
of  any  other  letters  which  might  follow.  Arrived  at 
Brieg,  I  found  Mr.  Vendale  out  of  danger,  and  at  once 
devoted  myself  to  hastening  the  day  of  reckoning  with 
you.  Defresnier  and  Company  turned  you  off  on  suspic- 
ion,; acting  on  information  privately  supplied  by  me. 
Having  stripped  you  of  your  false  character,  the  next 
thing  to  do  was  to  strip  you  of  your  authority  over  your 
niece.  To  reach  this  end,  I  not  only  had  no  scruple  in 
digging  the  pitfall  under  your  feet  in  the  dark — I  felt  a 
certain  professional  pleasure  in  fighting  you  with  your 
own  weapons.  By  my  advice  the  trap  into  which  you 
have  walked  was  set  for  you  (you  know  why,  now,  as 
well  as  I  do)  in  this  place.  There  was  but  one  certain 
way  of  shaking  the  devilish  self-control  which  had  hith- 
erto made  you  a  formidable  man.  That  way  has  been 
tried,  and  (look  at  me  as  you  may)  that  way  has  succeed- 
ed. The  last  thing  that  remains  to  be  done,"  concluded 
Bintrey,  producing  two  little  slips  of  manuscript  from 
his  despatch-box,  ''is  to  set  your  niece  free.  You  have 
attempted  murder,  and  you  have  committed  forgery  and 
theft.  We  have  the  evidence  ready  against  you  in  both 
cases.  If  you  are  convicted  as  a  felon,  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  what  becomes  of  your  authority  over  your  niece. 
Personally,  I  should  have  preferred  taking  that  way  out 
of  it.  But  considerations  are  pressed  on  me  which  I  am 
not  able  to  resist,  and  this  interview  must  end,  as  T  have 
told  you  already,  in  a  compromise.  Sign  those  lines,  re- 
signing all  authority  over  Miss  Obenreizer,  and  pledging 
yourself  never  to  be  seen  in  England  or  in  Switzerland 
again  ;  and  I  will  sign  an  indemnity  which  secures  you 
against  further  proceedings  on  our  part." 

Obenreizer  took  the  pen,  in  silence,  and  signed  his 
niece's  release.  On  receiving  the  indemnity  in  return, 
he  rose  but  made  no  movement  to  leave  the  room.  He 
stood  looking  at  Maitre  Voigt  with  a  strange  smile 
gathering  at  his  lips,  and  a  strange  light  flashing  in  his 
filmy  eyes. 

What  are  you  waiting  for?"  asked  Bintrey. 
Obenreizer  pointed  to  the  brown  door.      Call  them 
back,"  he  answered.    *'  I  have  something  to  say  in  their 
presence  before  I  go." 

Say  it  in  my  presence/'  retorted  Bintrdy.  "  I  db- 
uliue  to  call  them  back." 


667 


Obenreizer  turned  to  Maitre  Voigt.  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber telling  me  that  you  once  had  an  English  client 
named  Vendale  ?    he  asked. 

Well,"  answered  the  notary.  ''And  what  of  that  ?  *' 
Maitre  Voigt,  your  clock-lock  has  betrayed  you." 
"  What  do  you  mean 

'*  I  have  read  the  letters  and  certificates  in  your  client's 
box.  I  have  taken  copies  of  them.  I  have  got  copies 
here.  Is  there,  or  is  there  not,  a  reason  for  calling  them 
back?" 

For  a  moment  the  notary  looked  to  and  fro,  between 
Obenreizer  and  Bintrey,  in  helpless  astonishment.  Re- 
covering himself,  he  drew  his  brother-lawyer  aside,  and 
hurriedly  spoke  a  few  words  close  at  his  ear.  The  face 
of  Bintrey — after  first  faithfully  reflecting  the  astonish- 
ment on  the  face  of  Maitre  Voigt — suddenly  altered  its 
expression.  He  sprang,  with  the  activity  of  a  young 
man,  to  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  entered  it,  remained 
iuside  for  a  minute,  and  returned  followed  by  Margue- 
rite and  Vendale.     Now,  Mr.  Obenreizer,"  said  Bintrey, 

the  last  move  in  the  game  is  yours.    Play  it." 

''Before  I  resign  my  position  as  that  young  lady's 
guardian,"  said  Obenreizer,  "I  have  a  secret  to  reveal 
in  which  she  is  interested.  In  making  my  disclosure,  I 
am  not  claiming  her  attention  for  a  narrative  which  she 
or  any  other  person  present,  is  expected  to  make  on 
trust.  I  am  possessed  of  written  proofs,  copies  of  origi- 
nals, the  authenticity  of  which  Maitre  Voigt  himself 
can  attest.  Bear  that  in  mind,  and  permit  me  to  refer 
you,  at  starting,  to  a  date  long  past — the  month  of  Feb- 
urary,  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
thirty-six." 

"  Mark  the  date,  Mr.  Vendale,"  said  Bintrey. 

"My  first  proof,"  said  Obenreizer,  taking  a  paper  from 
his  pocket-book.  "Copy  of  a  letter,  written  by  an 
English  lady  (married)  to  her  sister  a  widow.  The  name 
of  the  person  writing  the  letter  I  shall  keep  suppressed 
until  I  have  done.  The  name  of  the  person  to  whom 
the  letter  is  written  I  am  willing  to  reveal.  It  is  ad- 
dressed to  'Mrs.  Jane  Anne  Miller,  of  Groombridge- 
wells,  England.'" 

Vendale  started  and  open  his  lips  to  speak.  Bintrey 
instantly  stopped  him,  as  he  had  stopiDed  Maitre  Voigt. 
**  No,"  said  the  pertinacious  lawyer.   "  Leave  it  to  me." 

Obenreizer  went  on  : 

"  It  is  needless  to  trouble  you  with  the  first  half  of  the 
letter,"  he  said.  "I  can  give  the  substance  of  it  in  two 
words.  The  position  at  the  time  is^this.  She  has  been 
long  living  in  Switzerland  with  her  husband — obliged  to 
live  there  for  the  sake  of  her  husband's  health.  They 
are  about  to  move  to  a  new  residence  on  the  Lake  of 
Neuchatel  in  a  week,  and  they  will  be  ready  to  receive 


668 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mrs.  Miller  as  a  visitor  in  a  fortnight  from  that  time. 
This  said,  the  writer  next  enters  into  an  important  do- 
mestic detail.  She  has  been  childless  for  years— she 
and  her  husband  have  no  hope  of  children  ;  they  are 
lonely  ;  they  want  an  interest  in  life  ;  they  have  decided 
on  adopting  a  chiM.  Here  the  important  part  of  the 
letter  begins  ;  and  here,  therefore,  I  read  it  to  you  word 
for  word/^ 

He  folded  back  the  first  page  of  ine  letter  and  read  as 
follows : 

€<*  *  ik  Will  you  help  us,  my  dear  sister,  to  realize 
our  new  project  ?  As  English  poople,  we  wish  to  adopt 
an  English  child.  This  may  be  done,  I  believe,  at  the 
Foundling  :  my  husband'^  lawyers  in  London  will  tell 
you  hoWc  I  leave  the  choice  to  you,  with  only  these  con- 
ditions attached  to  it— that  the  child  is  to  be  an  infant 
under  a  year  old,  and  is  to  be  a  boy.  Will  you  pardon 
the  trouble  I  am  giving  you,  for  my  sake  ;  and  will  you 
bring  your  adopted  child  to  us,  with  your  own  children, 
when  you  come  to  Neuchatel  ? 

I  must  add  a  word  as  to  my  husband's  wishes  in  this 
matter.  He  is  resolved  to  spare  the  child  whom  we  make 
our  own  any  future  mortification  and  loss  of  self-respect 
which  might  be  caused  by  a  discovery  of  his  true  origin. 
He  will  bear  my  husband's  name,  and  he  will  be  brought 
up  in  the  belief  that  he  is  really  our  son.  His  inheritance 
of  what  we  have  to  leave  will  be  secured  to  him — not 
only  according  to  the  laws  of  England  in  such  cases,  but 
according  to  the  laws  of  Switzerland  also  ;  for  we  have 
lived  so  long  in  this  country,  that  there /is  a  doubt 
whether  we  may  not  be  considered  as  'domiciled'  in 
Switzerland.  The  one  precaution  left  to  take  is  to  pre- 
vent any  after-discovery  at  the  Foundling.  Now,  our 
name  is  a  very  uncommon  one  ;  and  if  we  appear  on  the 
Register  of  the  institution  as  the  person  adopting  the 
child,  there  is  just  a  chance  that  something  might  result 
from  it.  Your  name,  my  dear,  is  the  name  of  thousands 
of  other  people  ;  and  if  you  will  consent  to  appear  on  the 
Register,  there  need  be  no  fear  of  any  discoveries  in  that 
quarter.  We  are  moving,  by  the  Doctor's  orders,  to  a 
part  of  Switzerland  in  which  our  circumstances  are  quite 
unknown  ;  and  you,  as  I  understand,  are  about  to  engage 
a  new  nurse  for  the  journey  when  you  come  to  see  us. 
Under  these  circumstances,  the  child  may  appear  as  my 
child,  brought  back  to  me  under  my  sister's  care.  The 
only  servant  we  take  with  us  from  our  old  home  is  my 
own  maid,  who  can  be  safely  trusted.  As  for  the  law- 
yers in  England  and  in  Switzerland,  it  is  their  profession 
to  keep  secrets — and  we  may  feel  quite  easy  in  that  di- 
rection.   So  there  you  have  your  harmless  little  conspir- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


669 


acy !  Write  by  return  of  post,  my  love,  and  tell  me  you 
will  join  it  "    *   *  ^ 

"  Do  you  still  conceal  the  name  of  the  writer  of  that 
letter?'*  asked  Vendale. 

"I  keep  the  name  of  the  writer  till  the  last/'  answered 
Obenreizer,  *'and  I  proceed  to  my  second  proof — a  mere 
slip  of  paper  this  time,  as  you  see.  Memorandum  given 
to  the  Swiss  lawyer,  who  drew  the  documents  referred 
to  in  the  letter  I  have  just  read,  expressed  as  follows  : — 
*  Adopted  from  the  Foundling  Hospital  of  England,  3d 
March,  1836,  a  male  infant,  called  in  the  Institution 
Walter  Wilding.  Person  appearing  on  the  register,  as 
adopting  the  child,  Mrs.  Jane  Anne  Miller,  widow,  acting 
in  this  manner  for  her  married  sister,  domiciled  in  Swit- 
zerland.' Patience  !"  resumed  Obenreizer,  as  Vendale, 
breaking  loose  from  Bintrey,  started  to  his  feet.  I 
shall  not  keep  the  name  concealed  much  longer.  Two 
more  little  slips  of  paper  and  I  have  done.  Third  proof  ! 
Certificate  of  Doctor  Ganz,  still  living  in  practice  at  Neu- 
chatel,  dated  July,  1838.  The  Doctor  certified  (you  shall 
read  it  for  yourself  directly),  first,  that  he  attended  the 
adopted  child  in  its  infant  maladies  ;  second,  that,  three 
months  before  the  date  of  the  certificate,  the  gentleman 
adopting  the  child  as  his  son  died  ;  third,  that  on  the 
date  of  the  certificate,  his  widow  and  her  maid,  taking 
the  adopted  child  with  them,  left  Neuchatel  on  their  re- 
turn to  England.  One  more  link  now  added  to  this,  and 
my  chain  of  evidence  is  complete.  The  maid  remained 
with  her  mistress  till  her  mistress's  death,  only  a  few 
years  since.  The  maid  can  swear  to  the  identity  of  the 
adopted  infant,  from  his  childhood  to  his  youth — from 
his  youth  to  his  manhood;  as  he  is  now.  There  is  her 
address  in  England — and  there  Mr.  Vendale,  is  the  fourth, 
and  final  proof  ! " 

'*Why  do  you  address  yourself  to  me?"  said  Ven- 
dale, as  Obenreizer  threw  the  written  address  on  the 
table. 

Obenreizer  turned  on  him,  in  a  sudden  frenzy  of  tri- 
umph. 

Because  you  are  the  man!  If  my  niece  marries  you, 
she  marries  a  bastard,  brought  up  by  public  charity.  If 
my  niece  marries  you,  she  marries  an  imposter,  withowk 
name  or  lineage,  disguised  in  the  character  of  a  gentle, 
man  of  rank  and  family." 

''Bravo  ! "  cried  Bintrey.  Admirably  put,  Mr.  Oben- 
reizer I  Itonly  wants  one  word  more  to  complete  it.  She 
marries — thanks  entirely  to  your  exertions — a  man  who 
inherits  a  handsome  fortune,  and  a  man  whose  origin 
will  make  him  prouder  than  ever  of  his  peasant  wife. 
George  Vendale,  as  brother-executors,  let  us  congratulate 
each  other  I    Our  dear  dead  friend's-  last  wish  on  earth 


670  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Is  accomplished.  We  have  found  the  lost  Walter  Wild- 
ing. As  Mr.  Obenreizer  said  just  now — j6\l  are  the 
man  ! " 

The  word  passed  by  Vendale  unheeded.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  was  conscious  of  but  one  sensation  ;  he  heard 
but  one  voice.  Marguerite's  hand  was  clasping  his. 
Marguerite's  voice  was  whispering  to  him:  "I  never 
loved  you,  George,  as  I  love  you  now  I " 

The  Curtain  Falls. 

May-day.  There  is  merry-making  in  Crippled  Comer, 
the  chimneys  smoke,  the  patriarchal  dining-hall  is  hung 
with  garlands,  and  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  the  respected  house- 
keeper, is  very  busy.  For,  on  this  bright  morning  the 
young  master  of  Crippled  Corner  is  married  to  its  young 
mistress,  far  away  :  to  wit,  in  the  little  town  of  Brieg,  in 
Switzerland,  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  Simplon  Pass  where 
she  saved  his  life. 

The  bells  ring  gayly  in  the  little  town  of  Brieg,  and  flags 
are  stretched  across  the  street,  and  rifle  shots  are  heard, 
and  sounding  music  from  brass  instruments.  Streamer- 
decorated  casks  of  wine  have  been  rolled  out  under  a  gay 
awning  in  the  public  way  before  the  Inn,  and  there 
will  be  free  feasting  and  revelry.  What  with  bells  and 
banners,  draperies  hanging  from  windows,  explosion  of 
gunpowder,  and  reverberation  of  brass  music,  the  little 
town  of  Brieg  is  all  in  a  flutter,  like  the  hearts  of  its 
simple  people. 

It  was  a  stormy  night  last  night,  and  the  mountains 
are  covered  with  snow.  But  the  sun  is  brighter  to-day, 
the  sweet  air  is  fresh,  the  tin  spires  of  the  town  of  Brieg 
have  built  a  greenwood  arch  across  the  street,  under 
which  the  newly  married  pair  shall  pass  in  triumph  from 
the  church.  It  is  inscribed,  on  that  side,  Honour  and 
LoYE  TO  Marguerite  Vendale  ! "  for  the  people  are 
proud  of  her  to  enthusiasm.  This  greeting  of  the  bride 
under  her  new  name  is  affectionately  meant  as  a  surprise, 
,and  therefore  the  arrangement  has  been  made  that  she, 
unconscious  why,  shall  he  taken  to  the  church  by  a  tor- 
tuous back  way.  A  scheme  not  difficult  to  carry  into 
execution  in  the  crooked  little  town  of  Brieg. 

So,  all  things  are  in  readiness,  and  they  are  to  go  and 
come  on  foot.  Assembled  in  the  Inn's  best  chamber, 
festively  adorned,  are  the  bride  bridegroom,  the  Neu. 
chat  el  notary,  the  London  lawyer,  Madame  Dor,  and  a 
certain  large  mysterious  Englishman,  popularly  known 
as  Monsieur  Zhoe-Ladelle.  And  behold  Madame  Dor, 
arrayed  in  a  spotless  pair  of  gloves  of  her  own,  with  no 
hand  in  the  air,  but  both  hands  clasped  round  the 
neck  of  the  bride  ;  to  embrace  whom  Madame  Dor  has 
turned  her  broad  back  on  the  company,  consistent  to  the 
Jast 


MISCELLANEOUJ3. 


671 


"For^ve  me,  my  beautiful/'  pleads  Madame  Dor, 
for  that  I  ever  was  his  she-cat  !  " 
*'  She-cat,  Madame  Dor?" 

"Engaged  to  sit  watching  my  so  charming  mouse," 
are  the  explanatory  words  of  Madame  Dor,  delivered 
with  a  penitential  sob. 

"WJiy,  you  were  our  best  friend  I  George,  dearest, 
tell  Madame  Dor.    Was  she  not  our  best  friend  ?  " 

*'  Undoubtedly,  darling.  What  should  we  have  done 
without  her  ?  " 

**  You  are  both  so  generous,"  cried  Madame  Dor,  ac- 
cepting consolation,  and  immediately  relapsing,  **But 
I  commenced  as  a  she-cat." 

"  Ah  !  But  like  the  cat  in  the  fairy-story,  good 
Madame  Dor,"  says  Vendale,  saluting  her  cheek,  **  you 
were  a  true  woman.  And,  being  a  true  woman,  the 
sympathy  of  your  heart  was  with  true  love." 

I  don't  wish  to  deprive  Madame  Dor  of  her  share  in 
the  embraces  that  are  going  on,"  Mr.  Bintrey  puts  in, 
watch  in  hand,  and  I  don't  presume  to  offer  any  objec- 
tion to  your  having  got  yourselves  mixed  together,  in 
the  corner  there,  like  the  three  Graces.  I  merely  remark 
that  I  th4nk  it's  time  we  were  moving.  What  are  your 
sentiments  on  that  subject,  Mr.  Ladle  ?  " 

Clear,  sir,  replies  Joey,  with  a  gracious  grin.  I'm 
clearer  altogether,  sir,  for  having  lived  so  many  weeks 
upon  the  surface.  I  never  was  half  so  long  upon  the  sur- 
face afore,  and  it's  done  me  a  power  of  good.  At  Cripple 
Corner,  I  was  too  much  below  it.  Atop  of  the  Simpleton. 
I  was  a  deal  too  high  above  it.  Tve  found  the  medium 
here,  sir.  And  if  ever  I  take  it  in  convivial,  in  all  the 
rest  of  my  days,  I  mean  to  do  it  this  day,  to  the  toast  of 
*  Bless  'em  both.'  " 

I,  too  ! "  says  Bintrey.  "  And  now.  Monsieur  Voigt, 
let  you  and  me  be  two  men  of  Marseilles,  and  allons, 
marchons,  arm-in-arm  ! " 

They  go  down  to  the  door,  where  others  are  waiting 
for  them,  and  they  go  quietly  to  the  church,  and  the 
happy  marriage  takes  place.  While  the  ceremony  is  yet 
in  progress,  the  notary  is  called  out.  When  it  is  finishes 
he  has  returned,  is  standing  behind  Vendale,  and  touches 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

Go  to  the  side  door,  one  moment.  Monsieur  Vendale. 
Alone,    Leave  Madame  to  me. " 

At  the  side  door  of  the  church,  are  the  same  two  men 
from  the  Hospice.  They  art  snow-stained  and  travel - 
worn.  They  wish  him  joy,  and  then  each  lays  his  broad 
hand  upon  Vendale's  breast,  and  one  says  in  a  low  voice, 
while  the  other  steadfastly  regards  him  : 

It  is  here.  Monsieur,    Your  litter.    The  very  same/* 

'*  My  litter  is  here?    Why  *? " 


673 


YORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


''Husli  1    For  the  sake  of  Madame.    Your  companion 

of  that  day — 

''What  of  him?" 

The  man  looks  at  his  comrade,  and  his  comrade  takes 
him  up.  Each  keeps  his  hand  laid  earnestly  on  Ven- 
dale's  breast. 

He  had  been  living  at  the  first  Refuge,  monsieur, 
for  some  days.    The  weather  was  now  good,  now  bad." 
**Yes?" 

"  He  arrived  at  our  Hospice  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and,  having  refreshed  himself  with  sleep  on  the  floor 
before  the  fire,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  was  resolute  to  go 
on,  before  dark,  to  the  next  Hospice.  He  had  a  great 
fear  of  that  part  of  the  way,  and  thought  it  would  be 
worse  to-morrow." 

''Yes?" 

"  He  went  on  alone.  He  had  passed  the  gallery  when 
an  avalanche — like  that  which  fell  behind  you  near  the 
Bridge  of  the  Ganther — " 

"Killed  him?" 
We  dug  him  out,  suffocated  and  broken  all  to  pieces  1 
But,  monsieur,  as  to  Madame.  We  have  brought  him 
here  on  the  litter,  to  be  buried.  We  must  ascend  the 
street  outside.  Madame  must  not  see.  It  would  be  an 
accursed  thing  to  bring  the  litter  through  the  arch  across 
the  street,  until  Madame  has  passed  through.  As  you 
descend,  we  who  accompany  the  litter  will  set  it  down 
on  the  stones  of  the  street  the  second  to  the  right,  and 
will  stand  before  it.  But  do  not  let  Madame  turn  her 
head  towards  the  street  the  second  to  the  right.  There 
is  no  time  to  lose.  Madame  will  be  alarmed  by  your 
absence.    Adieu  ! " 

Vendale  returned  to  his  bride,  and  draws  her  hand 
through  his  unmaimed  arm.  A  pretty  procession  awaits 
them  at  the  main  door  of  the  church.  They  take  their 
station  in  it,  and  descend  the  streets  amidst  the  ringing 
of  the  bells,  the  firing  of  the  guns,  the  waving  of  the 
flags,  and  playing  of  the  music,  the  shouts,  the  smiles 
and  tears,  of  the  excited  town.  Heads  are  uncovered  as 
she  passes,  hands  are  kissed  to  her,  all  the  people  bless 
her.  "Heaven's  benediction  on  the  dear  girl  I  See 
where  she  goes  in  her  youth  and  beauty  ;  she  who  so 
nobly  saved  his  life  ! " 

Near  the  corner  of  the  street  the  second  to  the  right, 
he  speaks  to  her,  and  calls  her  attention  to  the  windows 
on  the  opposite  side.  The  corner  well  passed,  he  says  : 
"  Do  not  look  round,  my  darling,  for  a  reason  chat  I  have," 
and  turns  his  head.  Then,  looking  back  along  the 
street,  he  sees  the  litter  and  its  bearers  passing  up  along 
under  the  arch,  as  he  and  she  and  their  marriage  train 
go  down  towards  the  shining  valley. 

END  OP  VOLUME  EIGHTEEN. 


